


We'll Meet Again Some Sunny Day

by dechagny



Category: Ghosts (TV 2019)
Genre: 1910s, 1920s, 1930s, 1940s, Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Angst, Chance Meetings, Childhood Friends, Comfort, Coming of Age, Cricket, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hurt, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Multi-Era, No I Don't Know Anything About Cricket, Nobody is Dead, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Relationship, Romantic Soulmates, Sexuality Crisis, Soulmates, Sports, The Captain (Ghosts TV 2019) Backstory, The Captain Needs a Hug (Ghosts TV 2019), The Captain is Gay (Ghosts TV 2019), Time Skips, World War I, World War II, okay it's definitely NOT historically accurate, pre-death, probably not historically accurate, this is entirely self-indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:47:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 51,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26717731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dechagny/pseuds/dechagny
Summary: Since he was a child, no matter what happened to him or his family, The Captain kept meeting William Havers. But that meant he kept losing him too. From children coping with the Great War, young men navigating the intoxicating world of the Roaring Twenties, and adults seeing the impending threat of another war, The Captain hopes he can find a way to keep Havers by his side this time.
Relationships: The Captain/Lieutenant Havers (Ghosts TV 2019), The Captain/William Havers
Comments: 139
Kudos: 157





	1. The Boy

“Happy Birthday, my darling boy!” his mother said in her lilting, sing-song voice. She walked through the living room with a sponge cake, light and airy, on her favourite porcelain serving dish, and a small parcel wrapped in brown paper, finished with a string bow tucked under her arm.

Across the room, his father was reading the paper and smoking a short, stubby cigarette, one leg thrown over the other, so his trousers exposed his dull black sock. He didn’t look up as his wife entered the room, but behind the paper, he was barely concealing his smile as he feigned ignorance and indifference.

He loved the looks on the faces of his wife and son when they thought they'd managed to cajole him into something.

Mother put the cake on the scuffed coffee table and ruffled her son’s soft, golden hair, smiling to expose the lines on the corners of her mouth. She had swept a thin dusky layer of lipstick over her thin lips for the occasion and spritzed her décolletage with white musk, making her smell like flowers and talcum powder.

“Don’t you look handsome, Darling?” she said, staring down at his new brown shorts and knee-high socks. His brown church shoes had been polished to perfection, and his white shirt was neatly pressed. He had tied his tie himself, and it showed – crooked and too short with a streak of mud across it from where he’d spent the morning playing in the garden.

Although now he was eight-years-old, perhaps it was time to stop playing out in the garden like a child? Maybe he should be copying his Father, he thought, eyeing the large broadsheets concealing his visage.

Mother set down the gift carefully and retrieved the box of matches from the mantelpiece, hitting one of the wooden sticks against the striker strip, so it fizzled into life with a single spark. The flame highlighted her warm smile, but her eyes were left to turn black as she lowered the fire to the solitary candle nestled in the sweet sponge. She extinguished the match with a single, dramatic puff.

“Make a wish, Darling,” she said, sitting on the threadbare carpet beside her son, enveloping him in a hug and pressing a kiss to his temple, leaving him with a pink lipstick stain on his skin that she would later try to rub off with some spit and her silk handkerchief. “Come on, John,” she said over her shoulder. “He’s about to blow out the candle!”

“Is he really, Elizabeth? I couldn’t tell.” John said, smiling from the corner of his mouth as he stubbed out the cigarette in the glass ashtray and closed the newspaper. He threw it on to the floor with a sigh and sat forward in the chair, nodding at his boy with cheer.

The Birthday Boy smiled back at his father and then closed his cobalt eyes, screwed up his button nose, and wished. When he opened his eyes again, the extinguished candle was spewing smoke into the air, and his parents were clapping beside him. Before he knew it, his mother was kissing his head again, and all he wanted to do was wriggle free from her and seize the paper from the floor; absorb everything about the world his father knew.

“Ready for your present, Son?” John asked, his knees creaking as he got up from his armchair and took the present from the coffee table. As Elizabeth walked by to cut the cake, John took her hand and kissed her knuckles, making her cheeks flush.

“Yes, Papa,” the Boy said, pretending not to be as excited as he felt. He loved the sound of that brown paper as it tore – it heralded the warm pleasantries of Christmas and the once-a-year treat of being the centre of attention on birthdays. “But we should wait for Mummy first.”

John smiled and clapped his son on the shoulder. “There’s a good lad.”

Biting his rosy lip under the praise, the Boy swallowed. “Papa…when you’ve finished, may I read your newspaper?”

“You can read it to me if you like,” John said. “Want to try whilst your mother's busy?” he added as they both heard the cacophonic crash of cutlery on the kitchen tiles as the dodgy drawer slipped off its runners again.

The Boy nodded and eagerly took the paper from his father’s hand when he passed it, cringing when he remembered that he shouldn’t have snatched. He held it between both hands, the sweat rubbing away the ink, and cleared his throat as his eyes lighted on a page with the portrait of a stern-looking woman on it.

“Tragedy arrived at stately Button House last week," he read slowly and carefully, making sure his tongue curled around each word. “The incident occurred in the early hours of Sunday morning when Lady Fanny Button took a tumble from the second-floor window of the country home she shared with her husband, Lord George Button.”

“That’s enough of that, Sweetheart,” Elizabeth said as she hurried back into the room, two plates of sponge cake in hand and a silver cake fork balancing on the side of each. “It isn't a fitting conversation for such a happy day.” She handed a plate to her son with a fond smile and gave the other to her husband, kissing him sweetly and laughing at his moustache tickled her nose.

The little boy did as he was asked and put down the newspaper – the eery image of the dead lady staring at him with disapproval as he carefully balanced the plate on his knee and took the gift graciously from his father. It wasn’t particularly heavy, and it rattled when he shook it. He twisted his mouth as he shook it again by his ear, eliciting little titters from his parents.

He gently pulled on one end of the string bow until it became loose and slipped it away from the gift, then handed it back to his mother. With careful fingers, he turned the present in his hands and carefully lifted the tape, sliding his finger under it so as not to rip the paper, which he also returned to his mother when the gift was free from its trappings.

The gift was presented in a travel-size box depicting a cardboard chess and draughts board that could fold away after use. When the boy lifted the lid, he found precisely that inside as well as simple black and white pieces for both games.

It was this game of chess he was playing with against himself on his bed four years later when his mother tentatively knocked on his bedroom door with her knuckles. She didn’t enter – she just stood on the other side with her hand clasped around the doorknob and her forehead pressed against the wood.

“It’s time, my darling boy,” she said, trying to remain chipper, but he could see and hear right through her mask. “Come and say goodbye.”

She stayed there for a moment longer, hoping to put off the inevitable, until she couldn’t anymore, and he could hear the soft tread of her slippers on the floor getting further away and a distant snotty sniff.

It was too sunny, he decided, as he slipped off the bed with a thud, doing his best not to jostle the game pieces. The sun was everywhere, and he couldn’t block it out, not even with the curtains which were just slightly too short after his mother ran out of excess material when sewing them. They were as terrible at protecting the room from the summer heat as they were the light, but at least they looked stylish. The cloth suited being curtains far more than they did being a tablecloth.

His hand snatched up a king from the chessboard before he really knew it was happening and flew from his bedroom with his chubby fingers wrapped around it tightly. Like he was afraid to let go.

They were waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. His mother, tissue in hand, dabbing at her swollen eyes and looking pathetic under her dress and cardigan, and his father, handsome and ramrod straight in his khaki uniform that was scratchier and more uncomfortable than he would ever let on. He had trimmed and styled his moustache and done the same to his hair, leaving it cropped a little too close to his head. He still looked like himself, but it was a version that he wouldn’t get to know or see.

“When will you be back?” the boy asked as he hovered one foot over the last step, eyeing his father with suspicion.

“As soon as possible,” John said, holding out his hand to his son so he could pull him into a hug as he finished descending the stairs. “You’re the man of the house now, Son,” he said into his hair, which smelled faintly of hand soap. “Look after your mother and do as you’re told from time to time, okay?”

The boy nodded, doing his best to smile. Already he could feel his eyes itching and pricking with tears, but he refused to let them pour down his cheek. Instead, he took a deep breath, blinked back the feeling and pushed himself away from his father so he could press the chess piece into his father’s hand.

“For King and country,” the boy said, raising his chin and pressing his lips together to stop them from wobbling. He stamped his feet on the floor and stood straighter, saluting his father as he'd been shown at school. To keep himself composed, he stared straight past his father and at the wall behind him, paying close attention to the colour of the cream wallpaper and its arsenic-green rose print for the first time in his short life. The paper was beginning to curl away from the wall about three centimetres from the top.

John slipped the king into his inside breast pocket and tapped it, smiling. A few metres away, Elizabeth burst into tears again and pulled a new handkerchief from her cardigan sleeve.

“For king and country,” John repeated hoarsely. “At ease, Soldier,” he added, his smile dropping as he ruffled his boy’s hair and kissed his forehead.

The boy didn’t pay too much attention to the goodbye between his mother and father; he was too preoccupied thinking about the wallpaper and wondering where he could get a new king for his chessboard, or what might make a suitable replacement. Perhaps his mother’s empty lipstick case or the coin he had stashed away in his sock drawer.

They watched John leave from the doorstep, Elizabeth with one arm draped around her son, pressing his back firmly against her, waving the other with a sorrowful vigour. The boy waved too as his father stepped in the van, other men from the street, attired the same, following. It couldn’t have taken longer than a few minutes, but it felt like they were standing out in the summer sunshine for hours. The boy was beginning to feel hot under his shirt and shorts, and his arm became numb with the ache of holding it up. He waved until the van drove off and it was nothing more than a blemish on the landscape.

When they turned back and closed the front door to the outside world, it was the silence that rang the loudest.

One afternoon, in the few weeks between the last leaves falling from the trees and the first snow, when the silence finally became as comforting as the furniture, the boy found his mother sitting on the front garden wall, cigarette in hand and shivering under her thin cardigan. She had a suitcase at her feet and a teddy bear in her lap she was holding close to her belly, trying to leech its warmth. They had been lucky to get the bear – a gift sent to them from a neighbour who had pitied them in their loneliness.

“What’s going on?” he asked, dropping the stick he’d been hitting against fences and walls that he’d picked up on his walk home.

Elizabeth patted the space on the wall beside her. He sat there, looking at her with a frown and knocking his restless foot against the bricks. She swatted his knee to make him stop. “It’s short notice,” she began with a sigh, “and I can’t tell you how sorry I am about that.” There was something in the tremble of her lip that made him think she was being completely open, much to her regret. “But…with your father away, money has been a little tighter than usual, so I’ve gotten a job in a factory.”

“That’s…a good thing, isn’t it?” asked the boy. “Why do you look sad?”

She dropped her cigarette to the pavement and sighed. She sighed a lot these days. “Because it means I’m going to be working long hours on most days and I’m not going to be at home to look after you properly.”

The boy frowned and straightened his spine, trying to make himself look taller and older than his twelve years. “I can look after myself.”

Elizabeth couldn’t help but smile at that. “I know, darling. But just in case you get lonely, I think it’s best if you go and stay with Auntie Frances for a while.”

“But I don’t like Auntie Frances! She’s boring, and it always smells weird over there. I want to stay here with you.”

“Trust me, sweetheart, I want you to stay with me too,” she admitted, stopping herself from tucking his hair behind his ears for him. “But I’ve not taken this decision lightly. You can play in the garden, help her take care of the animals, and she can look after you like you deserve. It will be good for you.”

“What about school?”

“I’m sorting all that out,” she said, hushing him in the way she did when he still fit in the crooks of her arms. “You don’t need to worry about anything, I promise. I’ve packed your clothes, a few toys and books for you. I've made sure you won’t be bored.”

He looked down at the pavement and knocked his shoe against the wall again, and this time, Elizabeth didn’t stop him. “I don’t want to go. I want to stay here with you,” he repeated. He scrubbed at his ruddy cheek with the heel of his hand, keeping his eyes downcast so she couldn’t see the tears beginning to swell there.

“Your father is out there making a sacrifice for us and the country,” she said, pulling on a stern tone that didn’t suit her, “and now it’s our turn to do the same.”

“But he told me to look after you.”

“He also told you to do as you’re told,” she reminded him shrewdly. “Aunt Frances will be here soon, darling. Be good for her. I promise to write, and I’ll make sure we’re together again for Christmas.”

The boy nodded, for there was nothing else he could do.

Auntie Frances had a small house out in the countryside with most of the land taken up by patchy grass, the cow, the sheep, and the two chickens that lived in her backyard. She wore her dead husband’s wellington boots on most days, and her apron was stained continuously with something, no matter how many times she washed it. Her straw hair was pulled into an updo every morning and was around her shoulders again by the end of the day.

It was horrible.

He sat at her wooden dinner table, pushing his supper of liver around the plate with his fork, a glum pout clouding his usually pleasant features. The clock on the wall ticked too loudly, and it gave him a headache.

“Didn’t your mother teach you not to play with your food?” Aunt Frances asked, looking over her shoulder as she washed the pots and pans.

“I don’t feel very well,” he said by way of an excuse, carefully putting down his cutlery. It wasn’t a complete lie, and he did look quite pale – albeit from upset – but pale, nonetheless.

Frances hummed and dried her hands on her apron before placing her large hand over his forehead. “You feel a little warm,” she agreed. “Take a walk in the cool air - you’ll feel right as rain when you get some country air into your lungs.”

He was glad to be out of the house and away from the off-putting smell of Frances’ house. As he walked out the door, she had thrust a lantern and candle into his hand so he could see a metre in front of his face without stepping in animal mess or accidentally knocking himself out by walking into a tree.

With every step, he wondered what his mother was up to now. He hated the idea of her sitting alone in their house with no one to talk to…but at least she would have her work colleagues to confide in. And what about his father? Did he think about them? Or was he too busy fighting the enemy to stop and think? Did he even know his only child had been sent away? Would his teachers be concerned about his education? Would his school friends miss him?

When he breathed out, he watched the condensation dissipate into the sky and found a small thrill in pretending to be his father, smoking and talking about whatever he had read in the paper that day, or a new fact he’d discovered whilst browsing books in the local library.

“Did you know,” he said out loud to himself, putting on a gruff voice with a smile, “that S.O.S in morse code stands for ‘Save Our Ship’? Here, let me show you how to do it.” He breathed out to mimic the exhalation of smoke again.

There was a distant creak somewhere above him and a small, amused voice hidden in the darkness. “It doesn't mean that.”

The boy jumped back, swinging his lantern wildly to find the source of the voice, but all he could see were twisted tree trunks and a haybale. His heart pounded wildly in his chest as a small giggle began to fill the air.

“Who’s there?” he asked, raising his voice.

“Me,” the voice said. “S.O.S doesn’t stand for anything,” it said matter-of-factly. “It’s used because it’s so easy to remember and do.”

“Where are you?” the boy asked again, raising an eyebrow. He walked around the area in hurried circles like Auntie Frances’ dog, Sweep, trying to catch her tail.

“Up here,” the voice said, dropping something. A small branch landed at the boy’s feet, and he smiled when he finally looked up, holding his lantern as high as he could to illuminate the tree.

Another boy, perhaps only a year younger than him, was sitting between the gnarled twigs and dead leaves, grinning broadly to show the dimples in his plump cheeks.

“You’re the boy Mrs Cole brought home this afternoon, aren’t you?” asked the stranger.

“She’s my aunt,” the boy said staunchly. “I’m staying with her for a while. Who might you be and why are you so nosy?”

The stranger grinned to reveal a gap where his front tooth should be. “I live next door. I’m William,” he said proudly, climbing down from the tree with surprising air and grace, landing with little more than a gentle thud. He stuck out a hand that was flecked with tree bark and dried mud. “William Havers.”


	2. The Boy: II

Little feet padded heavily on the frozen grass. The clouds were a heavy slate-grey above their heads, and they used the light layer of frost to help them pick up speed, using the smooth soles of their shoes to their advantage.

The wind whipped his cheeks as he passed Havers, a smile brightening his face as he staggered into the haybale with a triumphant whoop, his breathing heavy and hard as he leaned against the straw, watching Havers slow down for the last few strides.

“I get to be captain!” the boy shouted proudly before climbing the haybale, which for the past few weeks, had been their pirate ship.

Havers stared up at him with a pout, his arms folded across his chest. “Why do you always get to be the captain?”

“Because I’m the oldest and the fastest,” he said, leaning forward as Havers began to climb. The boy put his hand out for him, and Havers appreciatively wrapped his fingers around his as he heaved himself up and over.

The bale wasn’t exceptionally high, but it gave them an expansive view of the field and the back of Havers’ house, where they could see the shadow of his mother beating the living room rug over the washing line.

Havers’ and Auntie Frances’ houses were their home islands in their game and were therefore safe ground – no rival pirates or Royal Navy ships could get them there. The grass was the sea – of course – and the animals that wandered in from Frances’ extensive garden were sea monsters. Sometimes they were friends and sometimes, foes. It all depended on his dramatic the boys were feeling that day.

“Do you see what I see, Captain?” Havers asked, using his hands like binoculars.

The Captain did the same and nodded thoughtfully as Barbara - the cow - ambled towards them, occasionally stopping to graze at the grass with a nonchalant air. He hummed and put down his binoculars so he could twiddle with the tremendous pirate beard and moustache he had in his mind. “It appears to be a ship already in distress.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Havers said, eyeing Barbara with a sly smile. “A damaged ship like that would be easy to subdue.”

“It doesn’t look like it’s going anywhere soon.” Barbara had plopped herself down on the ground to rest, unaware of the conquest she about to become. “Good spot, Havers. I was wise to recruit you as my first mate on this mission.”

“The honour is entirely mine, Sir,” he said, like every loyal crewmate, making the Captain turn his head to smile back at him.

The journey across the sea was long and arduous, and like every fearsome captain, the Captain barked his orders for Havers to man the lines and alter the mainsail to catch the wind better. When it became clear their boat would be unable to reach the distressed ship close to shore, they decided to drop anchor and wade through the water.

“What do you think we’ll find on the ship? I hope it’s sugar.”

“Sugar would certainly be a glorious find,” the Captain agreed, walking with his hands clasped behind his back. “If we discover jewels, we can keep a piece for ourselves and sell the rest for upgrades to our ship, tobacco, and rum.”

Havers looked at him conspiratorially, an excited gleam turning his chocolate eyes into igniting embers. “Have you ever had rum?”

The Captain pressed his lips together and shrugged. “No,” he said, deciding to be honest for his new friend. “Have you?”

“No…my father drank it on Friday evenings when he got home. It looks like apple juice.”

“It probably tastes like it too then,” the Captain shrugged. “We’ll find out when we raid this ship.” He crouched beside Barbara, holding out his hand to her nose like he would a stranger’s dog. When she did nothing, he patted her head and smiled. “I think the crew are already successfully subdued.”

The first mate sauntered around the perimeter of the ship, pretending to catalogue the treasures he found. “We’re going to be rich men, Captain!”

“I always knew it!” he shouted, punching the air, and letting out a croaky pirate laugh that made Barbara lift her heard with a start. He quickly coughed and forced himself to regain his composure, clearing his throat and lifting his chin. “What do we have?”

Unfortunately, the Captain never got to discover just how rich they were to become because Auntie Frances was walking up the field, shaking her head and shouting.

“She’s a living being, not your plaything!” she said, clipping the Captain round the ear with her large hand. “What would your fathers say if they were here, eh? How many times do I have to tell you?”

Both boys looked at one another sheepishly, their faces cast down, but their eyes were looking up at one another as they tried not to giggle, hoping the other would break first so they wouldn’t be the one who got into the most trouble. Auntie Frances kept admonishing them whilst petting Barbara, her strident tone slipping into a fond air every few words as she attempted to be strict. It was something she wasn’t particularly good at and a trait she shared with her brother.

“What if you spooked her and she trampled over you both? She might have crushed your soft little heads in!”

“I’m sor-“ Havers began, finally looking up, but the Captain’s authoritative voice cut him off. The Captain was looking at his aunt with a stoic yet remorseful gaze.

“It’s my fault, Auntie,” he said. “I convinced William to play with Barbara even though I knew we shouldn’t. I’m sorry.”

From the corner of his eye, the Captain could see Havers’ small, thankful smile playing at his lips. In front of him, his aunt tutted and shook her head, wisps of her hay-like hair falling into her face and catching around her short, thick eyelashes.

“You’re a good boy,” she said to him. “I know that. You too, William,” she added. “You just have to be more careful.” Around them, the air dropped a few degrees as the sky turned a more foreboding shade of stone, leaving them all with goosebumps from the top of their spins to the soles of their feet.

“Go and play inside, boys. I think there’s a storm coming.”

* * *

They watched the snow fall in heavy sheets from Havers’ bedroom – their knees pressed firmly against the threadbare carpet and their elbows resting on the windowsill. Now and again, one of them would wipe the condensation from the window and trace patterns in the water just for something to do. Soon the snow had covered almost half the window and Havers was staring at it with a mild, barely-there frown.

The Captain looked at his concerned profile and tilted his head a fraction, taking in the sight of Havers’ clenched jaw and the way the soft spot between his eyebrows had folded in on itself. “Are you okay?” he asked tentatively. “Auntie Frances isn’t angry with us if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“It’s not that,” he admitted, pressing his lips together. “It’s just…I hope Papa’s okay. I don’t want him to get cold, that's all.”

Turning back to the window with a solemn nod, the Captain slumped his shoulders. “I don’t want mine to be cold either…but I think they’re both okay. They’re probably somewhere warm and writing us letters right now.”

“I hope so,” Havers said, pressing his palm against the window to feel the chill on his skin. “Do you know where your father is?”

“No. The last time I got to speak to Mama, she said he hadn’t written back yet.”

“I don’t know where mine is either,” Havers said with a sigh. “I hope they’re friends like we are. That way, when they come back, we can play together all the time.”

The Captain smiled, his cheeking turning rose. “Yeah! That would be so much fun! They can teach us how to shoot and how to command a company.” He glanced at Havers’ growing smile. “They can teach us how to be heroes just like them.”

“You’re already a hero,” Havers said, leaning back to lie down with his legs curled underneath him.

“No, I’m not,” the Captain insisted, copying his friend’s pose and staring intently at the ceiling. There was a crack in the back right corner leading from the bare bulb in the middle, and, when he squinted, he could just make out the small and bulbous body of a money spider resting on top of the bulb.

“You stepped in when I was going to take the blame for-“

“That was just sensible,” the Captain said, deciding to unfold his legs. The awkward angle made his knees crack. “I was the Captain, and we’re supposed to look after our men.”

Havers smiled, his tongue pressing through the gap in his teeth. “You’re a good Captain,” he agreed. “I don’t think I’d be very good at commanding anyone.”

“That’s because you haven’t tried.”

“Because you won’t let me have a go,” Havers teased, poking the Captain in the belly, making him squirm. “You know, you’re a hero in other ways too. Remember when you saved that hare from Sweep?” Havers had turned his head to look at his friend and noticed for the first time the pale freckles over his cheeks and the small dark mole that gave his face a certain charming quality that he couldn’t explain.

“I couldn’t let her kill the poor thing,” the older boy said with a slight pout, utterly unaware of the scrutiny his face was under from Havers’ warm gaze. “It didn’t deserve to be ripped apart by a stupid dog.”

“Of course not,” he agreed. “And you sacrificed yourself by moving here. That’s a very hero thing to do.”

“I didn’t have any choice,” the Captain shrugged. “Plus, I made a friend, so it’s not all bad.” He smiled at Havers broadly, keenly aware of how embarrassed he felt for no reason whatsoever. It winded him a little, and he had to take a deep breath, so it didn’t feel like his lungs were collapsing. “And it’s not like I’m going to be here forever. Mama’s coming back for me at Christmas.”

But Christmas came and went with no letter and no sign of Elizabeth, leaving the Captain waiting at the door with his suitcase packed at his feet every morning. When she didn’t come before lunch, he’d wait again after supper until it was time for bed, hauling in the suitcase and leaving it in the hallway ready for the next day. With every passing morning and evening, the Captain slumped his shoulders a little more until the waiting was a habit rather than a sincere hope. It was the first and last time he had felt betrayed by his mother.

“I’ll wait with you,” Havers said, sitting beside him on the doorstep.

“You don’t have to,” the Captain said with an easy shrug, his welling eyes betraying the cavalier attitude he was trying to give off.

“I know, but I want to,” he replied, putting a hand on the Captain’s shoulder. “That’s what first mates do. They support their Captains, and I have a good feeling about today.”

The Captain let out a small snort and rolled his eyes. “That’s what you said yesterday and the day before that…and the day before that.”

“I know,” he repeated with a guilty smile. “But one of these days I’ll be right, won’t I?”

“Yes…I suppose so.” The Captain’s knee hit against Havers’ as he shuffled on the step, trying to get the feeling back in his bottom.

They were still there when the postman strolled by whistling his tune with a skip in his step.

“Morning, boys!” he called out, waving a parcel as he turned up the path.

“Good morning, Mr Wilkins,” they said in unison, lifting one hand from the mugs of weak tea that Auntie Frances had thrust at them to breathe life into their frozen fingers.

The postman glanced at the name on the parcel, humming thoughtfully before proffering it with a flourish to the Captain. “I think this one’s for you, young man.”

When he reached out to take the package, he didn’t notice Havers carefully prising the mug from his hand and setting it beside his own on the step. The box, bound in string and brown paper as all his gifts were, was emblazoned with his name in his mother’s unmistakable sweeping hand – the letters curling around themselves trying to hug each other. He had said to his mother one day when he was watching her write a message at the dinner table. She laughed and tapped his nose with the tip of her pen, leaving him with an ink stain for the rest of the day.

“It’s from her!” he exclaimed, his smile shining from him as the sun shines after the rain. Warm and dazzling anyone who got too close. “Thank you, Mr Wilkins, Sir!”

“You’re welcome,” he chirped, turning back down the path to finish his route. His cheerful whistling carried on the breeze, and they could still hear him when he was out of view.

When no-one but Havers was around to see him, the Captain tore into the wrapping paper with glee, leaving the crumped mess and ripped shards sitting under his shoe. He lifted the lid of the box to find a letter, which he opened first despite his eager curiosity to discover the gift underneath.

* * *

_My Darling Boy,_

_I’m so sorry that I let you down at Christmas – I’m tormented with guilt over it. I wanted nothing more than to hug you, kiss you, and tell you that I love you the whole day. Unfortunately, I had to work over Christmas - I needed the money to make sure I can bring you home for good one day. Don’t be angry with me for too long, sweetheart. I hope you’ll understand.  
_

_Your father has written, and he misses you as I do. You’re so loved, my darling – I pray you feel just how loved you are every day. He said that Christmas wasn’t the same without us, but, in a show of unity and strength, the British and German soldiers stopped to shake hands and break bread with one another. An enemy soldier, on Christmas morning, allowed him to cut a button from his jacket in exchange for one of his own. His collection grows even on the frontline!  
_

_I live in the hope that God will reunite with both my boys by summer._

_Keep well, darling, and keep writing. Your letters fill me with more joy than you could ever imagine. Sorry your Christmas gift is late, but I hope you like it and that it reminds you of your father and me._

_All my love,_

_Your Devoted Mother._

* * *

He quickly folded the letter. Havers didn’t say a word as he slipped it into his trouser pocket and pulled the lid from the box. Inside, highly-detailed to the point of terrifying realism were fifteen tin soldiers in their uniforms. Some had their guns slung over their backs, some had them poised ready to fire, and another, the one that caught the Captain's eye the most, had a flat round cap and held his pistol aloft in one hand, and brandished a stick in the other; his legs moulded into a permanent run.

“Wow,” Havers breathed.

The Captain looked up from the toys with a sly smile, raising his eyebrows. “I call Captain!” he said, seizing the flat-capped figure in his hand and running back into the house with the box under his arm, laugh as he went.

Havers scrabbled to his feet, following him with an over-pronounced whine. “You’re always the captain!”

“They’re my toys!”

They couldn't have known that as they played at war with their tin soldiers on the floor of Auntie Frances’ cottage, a roaring fire burning in the hearth, the Captain’s father – warm, jovial, John - was lying in a damp trench in Mons, picking shrapnel from his chest and holding the king chess piece to his lips.

* * *

February was beginning to break into spring, and the first early daffodils had started to bloom at the edge of the woods, turning into a buttery, whimsical place that sounded like the forests in fairy-tales. As the days started growing longer, so did their games. Luckily for Barbara, neither boy saw her as a sea monster or a ship in distress any more. They had passed that honour to the rotten oak tree that had fallen at the end of January.

They were sitting over it in a tree that had missed being struck by the damned one, kicking their legs as they held tightly on to branches, pretending to be in the crow’s nest of their ship as they surveyed the ocean ahead and the ant-like crew below.

“Captain?”

“Yes, Havers?”

Havers leaned over as if he were trying to get a better look at something, his face set into a stern frown that was doing its best to curl up in the corners. “A woman is walking towards your Aunt's house.”

“A woman?” he said with a grimace, sticking out his tongue. “Who is she?”

Rolling his eyes, Havers shook his head, the smile blossoming on his lips like the flowers in the early morning. “I don’t know. Why don’t you get up and look?”

The Captain pushed himself up with his feet, using his hands to brace himself on the next branch off to get a better view. He could only see the back of her, but he could recognise that elegant and straightforward chignon from miles away and the sight of it made his heart jump into his mouth. As he shouted after her in his excitement, his foot slipped on the branch and Havers darted out his arm to grab the hem of his jumper to steady him.

He didn’t wait for Elizabeth to notice him and instead clambered out of the tree, falling the last few feet, and landing oafishly on his knees with a hard crack.

Still, he picked himself up and ran as fast as he could with Havers following shortly behind like always.

When they caught up with her, he almost barrelled straight into her, leaving her shaky and weak on her feet as she scooped her only child in her arms despite his growth. She was bony and hard where she used to be soft and comforting, and her eyes were red and puffy, but the Captain was too caught up in the pleasant smell of her perfume to notice.

“My baby,” she said into his hair, hugging him close and kissing his ear. “How I’ve missed you, my darling boy.”

“I knew you’d come back,” he said triumphantly before pulling himself away from her to push Havers towards her. “This is William. He’s my new best friend.”

Elizabeth smiled with her cracked lips, the motion stopping before it got to her eyes. “Hello, William,” she said. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Seemingly from nowhere, Auntie Frances was standing at the door with a pale face and William’s mother was coming up behind him. Clutching her skirt between her fingers as she briskly walked, Mrs Havers was nibbling at a dry patch on her bottom lip, her eyebrows furrowed.

“Time to come home, Billy,” she said, holding on to her son’s shoulder.

“But I want to stay and meet Mrs-“

“ _Now_ ,” she snapped, pushing Havers down the path and ushering him away. He turned his head to say goodbye to the Captain and his mother as they went.

“Does this mean I get to come home? Shall I get my suitcase?” the Captain asked, scanning his mother’s wan face and the worry lines that had appeared in her forehead. “What’s wrong?”

Over his head, Elizabeth and Frances looked at one another and nodded hesitantly.

“You’d both better come in,” Frances said, leading them through the front door. “I’ll make us all some tea.”

The living room clock was ticking in time with his heart and with the slow blinks of his mother. She was kneeling in front of him on the floor, holding his hands tightly and stroking his knuckles. For some reason, no matter how much the Captain tried to make her, she couldn’t find the words to say anything. Auntie Frances had long brought in the cups of tea and left again, muttering something about needing to feed the animals and pull weeds the garden.

“Mama? Have you come to take me home?”

Elizabeth nodded her head jerkily as she sniffed. “Yes…yeah. For a little while,” she said, squeezing his hands to keep him still when he made a start to grab his suitcase from the hall. “Darling,” she said, blinking back a tear and shaking her head. “I need you to listen very carefully…do you remember what your father said before he left?”

“He told me to look after you and to do as I’m told.”

“Do you remember what else he said?”

The Captain nodded. “That I was the man of the house now.”

“That’s right...you're the man of the house,” she whispered, letting go of one of his hands to brush his cheek with the back of her fingers. “Sweetheart, I’m so sorry…your father was…he was…” Her face had become a stark shade of white that made her look like a caricature of herself – one of the unflattering ones you could get on the pier on visits to the coast.

“He was killed in action,” the Captain finished for her. His voice was hoarse and afraid, but he lifted his chin and puffed out his chest for the sake of his mother.

Elizabeth nodded and let a barrage of tears spill from her blue eyes, leaning forward to kiss his forehead. “Yes, that’s right," she said gently. "I need you to come back for a little while so we can have a funeral for him ourselves and organise his things. Is that okay?”

“It’s not,” he said, his stomach in knots, “but it will be. I’ll look after you and the house and I’ll...well, I’ll do everything I can.”

Elizabeth brushed her son’s hair behind his ear with a shaky smile. “I know, sweetheart. Oh…they found your Dad with this,” she said, putting her hand into her cardigan pocket. She pushed the king into his palm and wrapped his fingers around it, allowing a hot tear to drop on to their entwined hands.

* * *

“I’ll write,” the Captain promised, standing by the taxi with his mother, both having already said goodbye to Auntie Frances. “When we have everything sorted at home.”

“Of course,” Havers said with a single nod. “Don’t feel like you have to rush.”

The Captain smiled from the corner of his mouth. “Look after the ship.”

Havers laughed, quickly throwing a hand to his lips to keep them shut. When the laughter had subsided, he saluted. “Aye aye, Captain.”

Sliding into the back seat of the car half-man and half-boy, he waved goodbye and pretended not to notice Havers wiping a tear from his cheek.

It was harder to pretend that he wasn’t wiping a tear from his own cheek when, six weeks later, after burying a few of his father’s belongings in lieu of his body, which had already been buried in Belgium, he received a letter in his own hand addressed to William Havers, the envelope stamped with ‘Return to Sender.’


	3. The Youth

The stars had already pierced the black of the sky when he wrapped his lithe fingers around the gold-plated doorhandle after a long day. He raised his face to the red brick canopy, taking a deep breath of the cold evening air and revelling in the relaxed, comfortable silence that only came with the setting of the sun.

To his left, he could make out the shadow of his mother on the sofa, gently illuminated by the glow of the lamp on the mahogany console table. He couldn’t hear it, but he instinctively knew that the gramophone would be playing the sweet, lilting voice of Blanche Ring.

He pushed the handle and was met with warmth: the crackle of the gramophone, and his mother, quietly singing along to _Yip! I Adee, I Ay!_ Reluctant to disturb her, the Captain took off his black cap-toe shoes at the door and moved through the hallway with soft steps, pausing to lean on the doorframe of the living room.

Elizabeth’s long curls acted as a curtain as she sang, bouncing Dottie on her knee with a soft smile as the toddler let out a giggle, trying to grab their mother’s hair in her chubby hand.

“Seek not Spring Valley to welcome home Sally, who went to New York for the ride,” she sang, exaggerating her expressions to make Dottie laugh.

“For the night than von Bellow cut loose on his cello, she tore up her ticket and cried,” he continued with a smile, walking into the room with a theatrical step.

When Elizabeth looked up, she was smiling broadly as they finished the song together. The Captain fell into the armchair by the sofa and dotingly pinched Dottie’s cheek to elicit a snort of laughter from her.

“You still remember it,” Elizabeth said fondly, untangling Dottie’s fingers from her hair as the gramophone came to a halt.

“Of course, I do,” he shrugged. He took a cigarette from the silver case he kept in the lining of his jacket and lit it, speaking from the corner of his mouth. “It wasn’t that long ago you were singing it to me.”

She shook her head in disbelief and wrapped her arms firmly around Dottie as she tried to wriggle free. “It feels like a lifetime ago,” she said wistfully. “How was work?”

The Captain exhaled heavily and crossed his leg over his knee. He stroked the filter of his cigarette with his thumb and let his eyes flutter closed, smiling as Dottie laughed at something. His mind stopped him from answering as he tried to subconsciously hold on to his sister's laughter and his mother's caring tone – imagining it in some other house from a life that didn’t exist anymore.

“Busy,” he said finally, knocking ash into the crystal ashtray with a careful finger. “More rude Fat Cats than I’d prefer to talk to, but what did I expect?”

“You’ll find something you like better soon enough,” Elizabeth said warmly, touching his knee with a smile, but she pulled it away as if he were made of coals when she heard the creak of the loose floorboard outside the study. She smiled apologetically as the Captain sat up straight in the chair, putting his foot on the floor, so he wasn’t ‘making the place look untidy’ as per usual.

Walter strolled into the living room with a sneer, swirling his scotch in his tumbler. He cut an impressive figure in his taupe wool tweed trousers and suspenders, and the white pinstripe shirt did an excellent job of accentuating his broad shoulders. When he was clean-shaven, you could better see the muscular shape of his square chin, an unfortunate feature it seemed Dottie was destined to inherit.

“What time do you call this?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at his step-son. “The bank closed ages ago. Where have you been?”

“Nowhere,” the Captain answered quickly, his eyes darting to Walter’s shoes to avoid the judgmental stare. “I ran a quick errand…not that it’s any business of yours,” he added pointedly. In his periphery, he could see his mother taking a sharp intake of breath.

Walter narrowed his eyes and swallowed the last of his scotch, the liquid barely touching the back of his throat. “It is my business when you’re living under my roof,” he flared.

He waved the empty glass at his wife. “Another drink, Elizabeth, there's a good girl.”

“I was about to put Dorothy to bed,” she said hesitantly.

“It can wait a few more moments,” he scoffed. “Can’t it?”

Elizabeth gave him a weak smile. “Yes, dear,” she said, handing Dottie to her brother and taking the tumbler to the kitchen.

When she was out of earshot, and Dottie was yawning into his shoulder, the Captain hissed, “you don’t get to talk to her like that.”

He stepped closer until the Captain could smell the smoky, medicinal aroma clinging to his breath and lips. “She’s my wife, and I’ll speak to her how I like.”

“Is that so?” the Captain challenged, finally holding Walter’s gaze. He could see his reflection in the whites of his bloodshot eyes. “Well, she’s my mother, and I won’t stand by and let you treat her like shi-“ he cut himself off as Dottie stirred, smacking her lips together. “Like she’s undeserving of your respect,” he finished.

Walter’s nostrils flared like a bull, but it did little to terrify the Captain. “How dare you have the gall to talk about lack of respect to me in my house?!”

“Here you are, dear,” Elizabeth said kindly, touching Walter’s shoulder so he would step back and take the glass from her. She shared a glance with her son as Walter looked between them, a smirk beginning to form.

“Why don’t you put Dorothy to bed, _son_?” he suggested, grinning uneasily into his glass. “I need to talk to your mother.”

Breaking eye-contact with him felt like a dangerous thing to do now, but he did it anyway, carefully getting out of the chair so as not to disturb Dottie who was struggling to keep her eyes open. He carried her on his hip, ambling to reduce the chance of jostling her, and to better listen to the voices becoming fainter with every step.

“That boy has an attitude problem, Elizabeth, I swear to God, if you don’t get him under control…”

“Life has been tumultuous for him, darling. Give him some time to get used to everything.”

“It’s been years, and he’s still not giving me an ounce of respect!” The Captain could see the spittle that would be flying from his mouth in his mind. “I’ll turn that little runt out into the streets – you wait and see.”

“I’ll talk to him,” she said in the tone she used whenever Dottie was having a tantrum. “I’ll talk to him.”

The Captain turned into Dottie’s bedroom and kissed the top of her head, gently rubbing her back. She gurgled happily and then whined as he placed her into her cot, using her creamy, ham-sized hands to try and grab at his tie.

“At least you like me,” he said with a small smile, reaching into the crib to stroke her hair. She laughed and grabbed at his fingers, clutching them with both hands, which only served to make him smile wider.

Despite having Walter’s chin, she still looked a lot like their mother – she had her eyes just as he did, and she had her curls and her high cheeks. Elizabeth didn’t laugh much anymore, but Dottie, unaware of the world beyond what she could see and understand, laughed more than enough for the both of them.

“You’re the best thing to come from him,” he whispered, tilting his head at her to get a better look at her ever-changing and growing features. Had that freckle beneath her eye been there yesterday?

He waited until she had fallen asleep and then took himself to his bedroom, collapsing on the brass and iron bed with an unsatisfied sigh and drifted off in his work suit, dreaming of those simple times before Walter.

* * *

His day at the bank went by in a blur of gaudy furs, cigarette smoke, and swapped cash. He smiled at everyone who came to him and helped several youngsters open their first accounts. He put a little girl's pocket money into a savings account, and withdrew a large sum for a man already sporting a top hat and tailcoat, despite it being only eleven-thirty in the morning.

The polished marble floor reflected his visage at him, but every time he caught it, his eyes seemed to glaze over – like his subconscious was telling him not to look in case he found something in himself he didn’t like. Perhaps he didn’t want to discover how much he looked like his father or didn’t want to admit to himself how tired he was of the bank or his step-father. Perhaps, most terrifyingly, there was something more profound about himself he was trying to avoid. Whatever the reason, he found himself staring past his reflection on the floor, in windows, in mirrors and the puddles when he walked home alone at night and lit only by streetlamps.

Before he knew it, the doors to the bank were closing, and everyone was locking up and collecting their things, and the Captain had to go back to a house he wasn’t welcome in.

“See you tomorrow for another day in paradise,” said Don Goodwin, the teller to his right. The Captain didn’t answer – he was already speeding from the desk with his hands thrust deep in his pockets.

Staring down at the damp staircase and black iron railings with a frown – for it hadn’t rained in three days – the Captain told himself that he’d go in this time. He’d heard rumours about the place – most people had – and he was torn between curiosity and shock. They were emotions which kept him walking past every day, occasionally stopping to glance down, hoping to catch sight of something extraordinary if someone happened to open the door whilst he was there.

Since he’d never dared to ask anyone about The Crypt, he couldn’t even be sure that he was in the right place. There might be nothing down there at all except for a locked door and some overflowing bins. He could walk by again like every day and not discover what all the fuss was about. But what was the alternative? Going home to be berated by Walter and watch his mother being torn down? Perhaps he should go back and check on her…give her hand with Dottie.

He'd only walked a few steps in the opposite direction when two men in slim-fit suits walked past, laughing with cigarettes hanging from their mouths and their two-tone shoes giving off a pleasant echo as they hit against the stone steps into The Crypt. The faint sound of a saxophone floated from behind the door as it opened and closed.

Suddenly, without remembering taking the stairs or heaving open the door, he was standing on the club's red carpet, being bumped into by the drunk and those rushing to get to the dance floor – beads and feathers clacking together and tickling the skin of anyone who got too close. Smoke gave the room a hazy, dream-like quality, and the antique chandeliers above his head cast a sickly yellow light on the swarms of people below.

Dragging his feet towards the counter and feeling more than a little dizzy, he took a seat on the padded stool at the end of the Venetian-red bar and ordered a gin rickey with a splash of syrup from the well-toned man behind the counter. As the barman measured the gin and lime into a tall glass, the Captain couldn’t help but notice the subtle curve of his bicep, accentuated by the simple black sleeve garter.

The crowd erupted into cheers, whoops, and claps as he was handed the drinks as a new band began to take to the stage at the far end of the club, followed by a dark-skinned woman whose curls had been twisted into an elaborate updo. She commanded the presence of the crowd, and they all fell silent for her as she took to the microphone a small smirk playing on her rouged lips. The navy silk evening gown skimmed her figure and, when she turned to introduce her band, he could see that it was dipped low at the back so you could see the bottom of her shoulder blades as she moved her arms.

When she began to sing, it was with a slow and sultry tone, and she caressed the microphone stand with a teasing grin – but even with that, the Captain found himself being drawn to the man behind the keyboard as he sipped on his chilled gin. The man’s hat was sitting on his head at a modern angle, and his fingers seemed to glide over the keys. He paused, and so did the rest of the band, before picking themselves up in a bold and brassy explosion, the lights on the stage becoming so bright that he had to look away for a second in case he was blinded.

By the stage, couples were beginning to swing and sway; their hands entwined as they twirled around one another. Two women with cropped hair in beaded dresses held one another around the waist and kissed each other on the cheek, whilst the men he had seen enter before him stole a kiss from one another at their table a few seats away from the Captain himself. The closer he looked, the more he could see, and all of it bewildered and delighted him.

Someone was dancing with gay abandon in a well-fitted suit, waving their hands in the air and occasionally running their fingers through their hair. When they turned to grab their sweetheart around the waist, he could see this free-spirited suited youth he was jealous of was a confident, woman who knew she looked good and revelled in the fact no-one was judging her.

So caught up in watching another male couple celebrating something with copious amounts of champagne, their hands clasped together proudly on the table, he didn’t notice the man slide up to the bar beside him to order a neat whiskey with a twist.

The man stared at the Captain for a while, smiling slightly as he drank, trying to think of something witty to say. When nothing came to him, and the Captain didn’t give any sign that he knew he existed, he quickly downed the drink to bolster his courage and ordered another.

“She’s good, isn’t she?” he said, leaning an elbow against the bar. “She’s like Nellie Melba if she were allowed to sing something that didn’t bore you to tears, don’t you think… _Captain_?”

The name finally brought the Captain out of his reverie, and he choked on some ice as he forgot how to drink. “I’m sorry?” he said, looking at the man.

“It is you, isn’t it?” Havers asked with an amused grin, a dimple appearing in his cheek. In the last twelve years, he’d become a charming young man with a complete smile – the gap in his smile having been replaced by a pearly white tooth. His hair was gelled into a coif, and he had unbuttoned his collar to expose a sliver of collarbone. Gone was the awkward movements of his childhood, instead it was replaced with a suave demeanour that he’d elegantly grown into.

“Good Lord,” the Captain breathed, drinking in the sight of him. He smiled broadly for a brief second and then shifted on his stool, suddenly aware of where they were.

“Havers…I didn’t expect to see you here…or anywhere, for that matter.”

Havers laughed and gave him a nonchalant shrug. “I’m just passing through,” he said, leaning closer to him so he could be heard over the metallic wind instruments. He was so close that the Captain could feel Havers’ warm breath on his ear. “In fact, I’m looking for someone.”

“Quite so?” The Captain answered, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Have you found them?”

Pulling back briefly to glance at the Captain’s hunched figure and tense hand around his glass, Havers shook his head. “Not yet. I take it you don’t come here often?”

The Captain cleared his throat and resisted the urge to loosen his tie so he could breathe. “No. I mean…I’m not...I don’t...” he squeezed his eyes shut and sighed. “No. This is my first time here,” he said, opening his eyes a fraction to see Havers’ amused grin that he was doing a poor job of hiding behind his glass. “Do you…”

“I’ve been known to visit several disreputable establishments in various towns and cities,” Havers said. “Let’s just say there’s more of Oscar Wilde about me than just the poetry.”

Leaning back on his stool with a wide stare, the Captain smoothed a hand over his jacket. “You’re a poet?”

Havers let out a delightful whiskey-soaked cackle. “Really? That’s the part you pick up on?”

The Captain shrugged, his cheeks colouring. “I’m interested.”

“I’m a failing poet,” he admitted, rolling his eyes. “I’ve been travelling up and down the country trying to sell my anthology…” Havers stood straight to pat his pocket with a self-deprecating smile. “Not sold a single bally copy!”

“You’re published?”

“Self-published,” he clarified. “I’m hoping it’ll help me get a foot in the door one day.”

The Captain tilted his head and licked his bottom lip to try and moisten his mouth. “I’ll buy one.”

“You’re a friend, so it doesn’t count,” Havers teased. “Unless you happen to know a publisher.”

“I don’t,” he said apologetically, “but it’s still a sale and I’d like to see how good you are. You were always a sensitive fellow, so I can imagine your poetry is written in the same vein.”

At this, Havers relented and allowed him to buy the only copy he had on him at a discounted price – not that he let the Captain know that, of course. He watched the Captain take a quick look at the simple beige cover and then slip it into his pocket without opening it. Instead, his oceanic eyes kept darting between Havers and the men holding hands as his fingers tapped restlessly on the bar.

“It’s okay,” Havers said finally with a small smile. “You can ask - I can tell you want to.”

The Captain raised his eyebrows and let a nervous laugh slip from his lips. “So, you’re…”

“Yes.”

“When did you…” he groaned at himself, shaking his head, aware that Havers was looking at him with a smirk again. “How did you know that you were…”

Havers took a deep breath and ordered the Captain a second gin rickey, pushing the money back to him when he tried to pay. “If I told you that, you’d only blush.”

“Try me,” he said, barely blinking as he stared intently at the sparkle in Havers’ eyes. They were still as he remembered them.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Havers said. “Remember that day your aunt told us off for playing with the cow? It snowed that afternoon, and we talked on my bedroom floor. Well, I remember looking at you…and I saw something. I saw _you_ , in fact, and I found myself thinking about how beautiful you were.” His eyes glanced up to the Captain’s enraptured face and shrugged one, self-conscious shoulder. “And still are. I suppose that’s when I first thought I wasn’t like the other boys I knew.”

The Captain said nothing – all he could think to do was stare at the ice cubes melting into his drink and focus on remembering how to breathe. He cleared his throat with a jerking nod.

“I told you you’d blush,” Havers said pointedly, finally catching his old friend’s eye and letting his smile turn soft.

“Why did you freely tell me about your…Oscar Wilde side,” the Captain asked quickly, his face forming a frown. "Earlier, I mean...before I asked you."

“Because you’re here. No-one comes here without being okay with queers…” he teased. “And because I still trust you for some reason,” he said, turning serious. “You’re a completely different person to the boy I knew…but I saw you here and…it was like no time had passed at all.”

“Oh…” the Captain answered, wiping condensation from his glass. “I see.”

They sat in companionable silence for a while, pretending to watch the band as they began to settle into a slower, more sedate song – the lights becoming dimmer to highlight the lead singer as the spotlight hit her shimmering face. Each of them sipped their drinks slowly, stealing glances at one another in the dark – trying to find a way to make up for lost time without saying anything that might destroy the bubble of jazz and gin that was protecting them.

“I wrote to you,” the Captain spluttered when Havers caught him staring. He cleared his throat again and chewed on his bottom lip. “I wrote several times…they all came back to me unread.”

Havers’ bitter smile cracked his features as he put down his glass on the bar. “ _Ah._ ”

“When I came back, you’d gone.”

“We moved,” Havers said regretfully. “Shortly after you left, my father was discharged and sent home injured. We had to move somewhere closer to a city and to a house without stairs.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” the Captain said honestly. “How is he doing?”

Havers shook his head. “He passed about three years ago.”

“How’s your mother?”

“The less we say about her, the better,” Havers said, his smile faltering.

Another few seconds of silence passed between them, and the Captain finished his drink with a grimace since Havers hadn’t known that he took his rickey with syrup. “I have to go home. Dottie will be wondering where I am.”

Havers’ head snapped up, and he raised his eyebrows. “Dottie? Who’s Dottie?”

The Captain laughed as he stood, pressing his tongue against his incisor. “My sister,” he clarified, the split second of disappointment in Havers’ expression making his stomach flip. “You said you were passing through, didn’t you? How long are you in town for?”

“Until Monday.”

Nodding, the Captain took a napkin from the end of the bar and stole a pen from the barman, scribbling a name and location on it. “If you’re free on Saturday, meet me here at midday. I’ve got something to show you, and we have a lot to catch up on.”

When he handed over the napkin, Havers’ fingertips brushed his, leaving him with another flutter in his stomach that made him look away. He didn't want him to see his embarrassed smile.

“Aye aye, Captain,” Havers said, eyeing the location with an amused grin. He carefully folded the napkin and tucked it in his inside breast pocket, languishing on the bar as he watched the Captain push through the crowd and ascend the stairs into the quiet world above.


	4. The Youth: II

All was quiet and calm that Saturday lunchtime.

The sun was baking his shoulders through his white linen shirt, and he was glad he’d decided to leave his suit jacket at home after all. Sweat prickled at his brow and he dabbed at it with the silk and lace handkerchief his mother had embroidered for his 24th birthday.

When he had thrust the kerchief back into his linen trousers, he took off his straw boater to fan himself with it, squinting in the light as he waited for Havers’ figure to appear on the other side of the marina. The longer he waited, the more his braces weighed down his shoulders.  
  
The _Shady Lady_ was an engineless sailboat in a warm, honeyed wood tone with vivid white sails that commanded attention. She was moored firmly to the edge of the marina, dancing delicately on the rippling water with the grace and pride of Anna Pavlova. Walter had bought her shortly after marrying Elizabeth, promising great adventures to make family memories that would heal them of their sorrow of poor, dearly departed John. But, like many of Walter’s promises, there were no adventures – it was too much effort. He’d been working hard all day, and he didn’t want to go sailing. There was no point going out when Dorothy needed all their attention.

Instead, it sat in the marina, gathering grime until the Captain decided he should clean it up a bit. Elizabeth somehow managed to sweet-talk her husband into letting him take it out on occasion.

“It would be a shame to waste it,” she said, rocking the three-month-old Dottie in her crib. “You should let him use it – he’ll be out of the house more often, and I’m sure regular use would keep it in better condition than leaving it unattended on the water or in a lock-up somewhere.”

The Captain was glad that his mother had suggested it – he’d spent many afternoons and early mornings on the water, staring up at the sky and watching the fluffy clouds glide over him, being swayed into a slumber by the waves.

Unable to keep staring in the middle distance and wait, the Captain stepped aboard the Shady Lady and ventured into the modest cabin. Here, he tidied the already clean surfaces with a dry cloth, scrubbing at a smudge that wasn’t there, much like his mother did when she was nervous. At the realisation, he stopped and smiled, staring out of the cabin window, and trying to work out what other habits he’d picked up from her.

He didn’t have long to think about it - a knock on the side of the boat brought him out of his daydream with a start, then Havers’ glowing features appearing through the window as he crouched down on the marina made him feel at ease again. The invisible smudge forgotten.

“What do you think?” the Captain asked as he emerged on to the deck, putting his hat back on with a proud grin.

Havers was smiling too as he climbed aboard, immediately leaning on the mast to take a good look at the view. “I can’t believe this,” he said, shaking his head fondly. “I knew you enjoyed playing pirate as a kid, but getting your own boat is just ridiculous.”

“Technically, it’s not my boat,” he admitted. “I’m…commandeering it.”

“You can sail?” Havers said, sitting down at the bow of the ship, his elbows propped up on the edges. He languished there are he might on the sofa at home, the gentle wind from the opposite direction teasing his soft hair, so he had to turn his head to avoid it falling into his eyes.

The Captain kept his eyes on him as he released _Shady Lady_ from her moorings, admiring the comfortable aura exuded. “Don’t sound too surprised,” he said with a good-natured smile.

“The new rich Daddy taught you, did he?” Havers said, doing a terrible job at hiding his smirk.

“I’m self-taught, actually,” he answered, ignoring the quip about Walter. As the line came free, he leaned over the back of the boat, pushing on the dock as hard as he could to propel the ship forward.

Havers turned his face toward the sun – the elongation of his neck, again exposing the unbuttoned collar and the hint of skin leading toward his chest. “So,” he said slowly, soaking in the warmth, “it seems you’re my captain once again.”

The Captain’s mouth trembled somewhere between a harsh line and an embarrassed smile as he turned towards the rudder to steer. “If that’s the name you’re sticking with, I won’t complain.”

“What is it with you and boats?” Havers wondered aloud, waving to two women on a nearby boat as they tumbled on board with a bottle of wine and enough laughter to suggest they’d already drunk two. “I mean, it wasn’t just the pirate games we played…you used to draw boats and pirates too. Do you remember?”

He did remember. If he went back to Auntie Frances’ house now, he might even still find one of his childhood drawings, scribbled on brown Christmas wrapping paper, stuck to his old bedroom door.

“I liked pirates,” he said with a shrug. “There’s little more to it than that.”

“Liar,” Havers said quickly, a smug smile plastered on his face. “You always sniff and wriggle your nose when you lie.”

The Captain scoffed and hoped his pink cheeks could be mistaken for a sunkissed glow. “I do not,” he said, unable to stop himself from sniffing and wriggling much to his chagrin. They both fell into easy laughter, and it was like they had been thrown back into the past. They saw the glint of their younger selves in each other and wondered if twelve years was all that long after all.

“Fine,” the Captain said eventually, waving a dismissive hand. “I had a penchant for the Pirates of Penzance,” he admitted, glad he couldn’t see Havers’ smile as he focused his gaze on steering out of the marina and into broader water.

“Interesting,” Havers said after a short pause. “Very interesting.”

“Is it?”

“Sure,” Havers said, enjoying the cool air wicking his skin as they picked up speed. “I mean…forgive me for being so bold, but I found you in an establishment of debauchery and criminality,” he said, putting on his best crotchety old man voice. “Now you’re telling me you loved a Gilbert and Sullivan musical so much that you based our childhood games around it and got a boat?”

The Captain took a sharp breath through his nose and straightened his back, looking ahead. “I don’t know what you’re insinuating.” His eyes darted from the landscape to his lace-up shoes, and he was keenly aware of the sweat on his palms.

“Oh, okay...” Havers said slowly, holding his hands up in surrender. “I won’t insinuate any more if you’re not ready for it.”

Smiling shyly, the Captain muttered his thanks and let the conversation plateau into another comfortable silence. The gentle hush of the water lulled them both – it was quiet without being deafeningly so – the white noise of the current hitting the sides of the Shady Lady giving them something to focus on whilst blocking out their thoughts.

The further away from the city they became, the more they revelled in the salt wind winding through their hair and whipping their linens, and the taste of brine hanging on their lips. Around his temples and at the nape of his neck, Havers’ hair had begun to curl, giving him a cherubic quality that was only highlighted by the amber sun. He glowed in his confidence, and the world fell around him to accommodate it, unlike the Captain, who felt the world was falling on top of him without seeing him. For him, the sun shone a light on his shortcomings and made them more obvious – causing him to shrink into his own awkward body.

“Where are we going?” Havers asked, using a hand to shield his eyes.

“Nowhere in particular,” the Captain said, looking up at the sails. “Just…around. Can you make yourself useful and move the boom windward, would you? The wind is changing.”

Havers jumped up and strolled quickly to the sail, adjusting it as though all their childhood games had been leading up to this day. He was smiling as if he were thinking it too with the Captain eyeing the sail and then muscles of Havers’ back flexing under his sea-sprayed shirt.

“That’s perfect,” he said appreciatively, adding hastily, “the boom, I mean.”

“I didn’t think you meant anything else,” Havers said, coming to sit by the Captain with a raised eyebrow.

Pressing his lips together, the Captain nodded. “I know…I was just making sure.”

They couldn’t have been sure how long they sailed for – they just kept going until they were bored, making small-talk about their fathers and reminiscing about their childhoods, trying not to broach subjects that were sore points in their lives accidentally.

The Captain talked about Dottie at length – she could stand on her toes now and loved pretending to be a ballerina. She could speak well for her age, but she was shy and preferred to watch and observe the others around her. She struggled to say his name, so she usually called him ‘Buba’ because she couldn’t say ‘brother’ yet either. He sang the praises of his mother and lamented about his job at the bank but said little to nothing about Walter.

In return, Havers discussed his school days and how he had discovered his love of poetry – from a crushed and bruised copy of _Dramatic Lyrics_ by Robert Browning that he found in a forgotten corner of the library. No-one had noticed him take it, the fact it was missing, or the fact he never returned it. He described the house they moved to, the city and its lights that had captured his country-boy heart, and said little to nothing about his mother, who had disappeared from his vocabulary several years ago when he left to make it on his own. Though, whether he had left of his own volition or not, the Captain couldn’t be sure.

“A late lunch?” the Captain suggested, spotting a place up ahead to moor. “The cabin is well-stocked.”

“It’s such a lovely day,” Havers noted, spinning around the mainsail. “It would be a shame to waste it inside. Al-fresco?”

“If you like.”

Havers helped to tie the line to the shore under the Captain’s instructions, beaming all the while. “You’re not going to send me out looking for other ships to pillage, are you?” he quipped.

“I might if you irritate me enough,” the Captain fired back, heading into the cabin to grab the basket of bread, preserves, and wine. He emerged to find Havers already stretching out on the grassy bank, not caring about the green stains that would inevitably colour his beautiful shirt. “It’s not much,” he said, gesturing towards the basket in his hand as he plopped himself next to his friend. “The ice-box doesn’t work.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Havers said casually, watching the Captain tear from the loaf of bread – crusty and golden on the outside and deliciously fluffy and spongey on the inside. He took the piece gratefully when he offered it to him and savoured its warm, hearty aroma as he put it in his mouth, humming appreciatively. “There’s nothing better than sunshine and good simple food with great company.”

“It’s certainly nice to indulge in life’s simplicity,” the Captain agreed. “Mama made the bread,” he added, dipping his piece into a pot of jam. “I’ll tell her you liked it.” As he chewed, he removed the cork from the wine bottle and handed it to Havers.

“Your mother baked bread for your date?” he teased after taking a swig and handing it back.

The Captain took a long drink from the bottle, biding time to find something to say. “Who said this was a date?”

“Well…no-one,” he admitted begrudgingly, taking more bread from the Captain. “But it was implied.”

“I thought you were going to stop insinuating?”

“I have,” he said, wrestling the bottle from the Captain. “I’m saying it outright instead, and you haven’t denied any of it.” When he didn’t get a response, Havers gave a small shrug and tried to find it in himself to be serious. “It’s okay. I get it…it can be hard to talk about, and some people in this world are cruel – God knows I know that,” he said with a self-deprecating smile, “but there’s no rush. Take your time.”

The Captain pulled his knees to his chest with a heavy sigh, gladly taking the wine from Havers when he offered it again. He drank as if he'd been cursed never to feel quenched. “I…I don’t know how to _be_ …”

“That’s okay too,” Havers said. “Lots of people will tell you how you should be, and lots more will tell you what _not_ to be, unfortunately. But, in my experience, there isn’t a right or wrong way. Not really. Do and be whoever and whatever makes you happy – life is too short to do otherwise.”

Smiling from the corner of his mouth, the Captain shook his head and finally handed back the wine. “It could be even shorter if anyone found out.”

“At least you get to live your life truthfully for a time,” Havers said with a shrug. “I’d rather live a full half-life than a half full-life.”

The Captain wrinkled his nose. “Well,” he said primly. “I don’t think I’m quite in that mindset yet.”

“May I make an assumption?”

Raising an eyebrow, the Captain smirked. “I’m confused as to what you’ve been doing up until this point then, but sure.”

Havers paused to choose his words carefully, gazing at the Captain’s dusty brown hair and how it burned copper when the light touched it. Though mired with deep-rooted confliction, his eyes were still a kind and comforting place to take refuge. “I think you liked Pirates of Penzance so much because you related to Frederic. You too were willing to forgo a life that would make you happy out of a sense of duty or because it’s what’s expected of you.”

“The music isn’t bad either,” the Captain murmured. “Are you a poet or a psychologist?”

“Sometimes, the two go hand in hand.” Havers offered him the wine again, not letting go when the Captain wrapped his fingers around the neck of the bottle. They regarded one another closely for a moment before Havers finally let his had fall away and into the grass instead. “I hope you can find a way to be happy. It’s the least you deserve.”

The Captain took a breath and smiled, feeling oddly cleansed and comforted by the conversation, if not enlivened by it. “Thank you…I wish you didn’t have to leave.”

“I’ve still got tomorrow,” Havers pointed out, his face lighting up. “Let’s go back to The Crypt tomorrow night. It might do you some good to spend some time among like-minded individuals.”

“I don’t know…”

“Come on,” Havers said, nudging him playfully. “Don’t such a bluenose! It’ll be fun, and you’ll only regret it if you don’t get involved with the scene at least once. I promise if you hate it, we can leave.”

After a few moments, the Captain relented, rolling his eyes, and feeling a flurry of excitement take up space in the part of his belly that wasn’t occupied by their queer eucharist. Havers was just as thrilled, but he was trying not to show it as they put the leftovers back in the basket and clambered on board the _Shady Lady_ – the Captain saying he ought to go home and entertain Dottie whilst his mother made a start on dinner.

“A little early for that, isn’t it?” Havers said suspiciously. “You’re not just looking for an excuse to avoid me after all this, are you?”

“Of course not,” the Captain told him as they pushed off. “Walter insists we dine at six for some reason.”

“Well…” Havers said slowly, putting his hand into his pocket to retrieve a purple paisley tie, “just in case you are planning to avoid me and skip our rendezvous, I want you to borrow this.” He draped it over the Captain’s shoulder with a grin. “I need that for a meeting on Tuesday, and it’s my only one.”

The Captain couldn’t stop his smile from forming. “Oh, so you do actually own a tie,” he said, eyeing his open collar, “you _choose_ to look slovenly. Somehow I feel like it won’t matter if I don’t give it back.”

“I hope you do,” Havers said earnestly as the Captain put the tie in his pocket with a simpering smile.

* * *

When he opened the front door, he could hear Elizabeth pottering around the living room and Dottie’s tiny, unsteady feet following her with a giggle. Elizabeth was pretending to dust Dorothy’s head with her ostrich feather duster when the Captain came in, his fingers curled around Havers’ tie in his pocket.

“Buba!” Dottie said, falling over as she tried to make her way to him.

“Hey, princess,” the Captain said, picking her up with a beam and kissing her nose, which made her laugh and clap her hands together.

Elizabeth went back to dusting the mahogany console table, carefully moving the lamp and the crystal vase of dying golden honeysuckles as she went. “She’s been lovely today,” she said, smiling fondly over her shoulder. “You’ll have no issues with her, I’m sure. Did you have a nice afternoon?” She frowned a little as she padded towards him to run her thumb over his cheek gently. “You’ve caught the sun, darling. You really ought to be more careful.”

“Next time,” he promised, playfully batting her hand away whilst balancing Dottie on his hip. “Where’s Walter?”

She huffed and tucked the duster her arm, then pushed her dulling hair behind her ears. “Cooped up in his study, as per usual,” she said under her breath, her eyes darting to the door. “Hopefully, supper and a drink will warm him up a little bit.”

“You’re more likely to become Queen,” the Captain mumbled, pursing his lips.

A brief smile flashed across her features before she took a swipe at his arm. “Be nice,” she said firmly. “I know you’re not fond of him, but you should at least try and meet him half-way.”

“I’ll only try if he does,” the Captain said, perhaps a little more childishly than he meant.

Elizabeth ran her fingers through his hair like she used to, and like she did with Dottie now, smiling mournfully. “I know you miss your father,” she said, “and I do too, but Walter has given us a wonderful home, new opportunities, and Dottie, of course,” she added, kissing her daughters head. “You need to make the most of what you have, even if it’s not what you would have chosen. I’ll always love you, and I’ll always love your Dad, but you and I need to-“

“Elizabeth,” Walter said, appearing silently at the door like a ghost, his mouth set into a grim line. “Isn’t it time you started supper?”

“Of course, dear,” she said, her face trying to pull itself into a smile as she slipped away with a warning gaze to her son.

As she became restless, the Captain carefully lowered Dottie back to the floor so she could play with his shoelaces, trying to ignore the burning feeling in his head as his step-father glared.

“Did you go anywhere nice?” he said eventually, scratching his stubbled chin.

The Captain shook his head, holding his hands behind his back like a soldier. “Not really. I sailed around aimlessly and enjoyed a spot of lunch.”

“On your own?” he asked, tilting his head.

“Yes.”

“What’s that then?” Walter asked, nodding towards the plum material peeking from his pocket.

Pushing it back swiftly, the Captain cleared his throat. “My tie.”

“You’re wearing your tie.”

The Captain glanced down and let out a small, nervous chuckle that made Dottie look up at him with a curious gurgle. “Yes,…” he said. “I mean…it’s another tie that I thought I lost, but I just found it on the boat.”

Walter raised his chin and narrowed his eyes, letting out a short, nasal hum. “I see…” he said, his features betraying nothing of his emotions. “Take Dorothy upstairs, will you? You’re both making the place looking untidy.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, gladly scooping up Dottie and briskly walking out with his heart lodged firmly in his mouth.


	5. The Youth: III

The chandelier dazzled him as much as it had the other night, only this time, it seemed to sparkle like diamonds under a match, showing off its shimmering colours in the multi-faceted stones. It was if someone had caught a rainbow and preserved it in stone so the world could marvel in its beauty again and again.

Raising his champagne flute to his lips, the Captain tore his eyes away from the ceiling to watch the band, enjoying the bright glint of the saxophone under the spotlight as the musician played. Beside him, Havers was smoking a cigarette, looking effortlessly cool in his dark suit with the amethyst pocket square and his returned matching tie sitting loose about his neck. He was tapping the toes of his shoes against the table leg and occasionally glancing at the Captain to see if he was enjoying himself. Mostly, his expression was one of wide-eyed interest, but sometimes, he looked like a hare standing too close to a fox.

“A top-up?” he suggested with his cigarette hanging from his lips, lifting the champagne bottle.

The Captain nodded and held out his glass, not taking his eyes from the band. “Thank you, Havers. Sincerely.”

“I’m only refilling your glass,” Havers shrugged, squashing his cigarette butt into the ashtray on the table.

“That’s not what I meant,” the Captain admitted, finally turning his head to look at him with a shy, somehow contented smile.

“Oh,” he said, pouring what was left of the bottle into his own glass. “You’re welcome. Glad I could help in my own small way.”

The Captain tapped a finger against the tabletop, pursing his lips. “You’ve done more than you know…and not just over the past few days. Even your influence on me as a child as remained. I don’t know what it is about you, Havers.”

Grinning into his glass and letting the tart bubbles fizz and pop against his nose, tickling it, Havers nodded. “I could say the same about you.” After a beat, he put down his glass and made sure his matches and cigarettes were secure in his pockets. “Would you like to dance?”

“I don’t know how to,” the Captain said, shaking his head.

“You don’t need to,” Havers said, gesturing to the dance floor where a young couple was moving out of time to the music, holding one another around the waist with smiles that dripped richer than the jewels around their throats. They laughed at every misstep which only made them hold each other tighter and dance with more fervour in their tangle of uncoordinated limbs.

“Fine,” the Captain said, knocking back his champagne, so it burned his throat and made him wince. “But don’t blame me when I break your toes.”

“I promise,” Havers said kindly, sliding from his seat and offering his arm with a charming smile.

The Captain slipped his arm through Havers’ and allowed himself to be led to the floor, finding that the dancers shifted to make room for them, glad for the excuse to be closer to their sweethearts. Women in their short dresses brushing their legs together and men dancing cheek to cheek, murmuring something tender into one another’s ears. It occurred to him, as Havers slid his arm away to link their hands together, that no-one was looking at them. Here, they were inconsequential, invisible things preserved in a world that didn’t exist elsewhere and it was as if he'd been given the gift of flight.

Without really realising he was doing it, the Captain used the hand that wasn’t wrapped in Havers’ to touch his waist, following his lead in a faux waltz as the music began to wind down. As he pressed himself close, he could smell the smoke and tart liquor on his lips, the sage-scented Brilliantine in his hair, and the subtle citrusy aroma of sweet orange water on his neck. It was a collection of scents that reminded him of home – one he used to belong to and one he could feel himself living in someday if he just took a chance.

“Don’t go,” he said into Havers’ ear. “Stay. You can find a publisher here.”

Havers smiled softly and pressed his hand firmer against the small of the Captain’s back. “I have a meeting with Scribner – I can’t pass up the opportunity.”

“Then come back straight after,” the Captain said quickly. “It’s selfish of me, I know…but I’ve had more fun this weekend than I have in the last twelve years, and I don’t want it to end. I don’t want you to go.”

“You’re making it very hard for me to say no to you,” Havers admitted, turning them in slow circles and squeezing his hand.

“Then don’t say it,” the Captain implored, leaning back a fraction to see his face, which was mired with a gentle discord. “I have money saved, and we could get you a flat somewhere. It would be easy.”

Havers shook his head fondly, biting down on his bottom lip as he gracefully spun the Captain out and brought him back to his arms again in one swift movement. “Fuck, okay,” he said with a shrug, drinking in the Captain’s wide stare and beaming smile. He didn’t have it in himself to crush him with discussions of practicality. “I’ll come back, and I’ll stay.”

The Captain could feel his heart glowing inside his chest and the light escaping from his mouth and eyes. “You won’t regret it,” he stammered. “It’ll be nice to start again, won’t it?”

“Of course,” Havers said. “We all need a second chance at some point or another.”

“Champagne! I’ll get more champagne to celebrate!” The Captain quickly untangled his limbs from Havers’ and headed to the bar with a spring in his step. He kept looking over his shoulder at their table as Havers sat to light another cigarette, half expecting him to evaporate like the smoke than clung to him.

* * *

The bloodless orChid: a creature tricky and rare

DelicAte petals like your heavy soul laid bare

On the stePs of a home that never was yours

WaiTing on the bloom of your evening prayer.  
  


Littering foxgloves in the hedges of the fArm

TakIng solace from the crook of your arm

IN the daggered air of the place you were safe

You thought the lying smIle worked a like a charm.  
  


You were the sunfLower reaching for the sky

And I was the aphid trying tO demystify

How you could stand so proud and excessiVe

WhEn all you craved was her humming lullaby.  
  


The steaDfast magnolia: its presence the start

Of this fair world, like You on my heart

A yOuthful fancy of my own in longing

Even as you Unravelled each day in part.  
  


Oh! My dear and wIld, bloodless orchid rare

I wish you had told Me to watch and beware

That our captivating gameS would only last so long

BefOre you were wanted on a new path somewhere.  
  


And so, the lonely aphid tReasured what it had seen

BuRying its childhood in the garden it treated as queen

PatientlY waiting for those same flowers to bud

In the Wild you had left so cold and so grim

Begging on its wings, that you felt just the same as Him.  
  


_The Aphid and its Garden, 1917._

* * *

They were huddled close, sharing a match to light their cigarettes when the man with the square chin saw them from the top of the stairs – a self-published manuscript in his hands that had been tenderly scribbled in, words circled, and pages folded. He watched Havers tuck the Captain’s hair behind his ear, and then he was gone as quickly as he had arrived, with neither Havers nor the Captain looking up from their warm, effervescent bubble.

“I’d like to have a place somewhere with an ample garden,” Havers said decidedly. “With space for an allotment, perhaps.”

“And a few flowers?” the Captain teased. “I’ve heard orchids are lovely.”

Havers smiled, his cheeks turning a becoming shade of claret as he caressed the Captain’s knuckles. “The only flower I care about has bloomed. Everything else in the garden is just a bonus - if only my thirteen-year-old self could see me now.”

“You were more than just an aphid,” the Captain told him. “I didn’t realise it at the time…but thinking back, I was always looking for ways to impress you. For ways to get you to like me.”

“If that were true, you would’ve let me play the captain for once.”

The Captain chuckled and blew his smoke towards the chandelier. “I couldn’t. I was the eldest and fastest and those were the rules!” he said petulantly.

“Oh yeah? How are those rules working out for you now?” Havers grinned, leaning forward on the table.

Bringing himself close to answer, the Captain grinned softly as he noticed the gentle slope of Havers’ nose and the way his eyes were already showing the signs of laughter lines. “Some rules are worth breaking. Besides, the more I think about that full half-life, the more I think I would like it if I could share it with you.”

Havers slid a warm, careful hand to the Captain’s cheek and brushed it with the back of his fingers with a feather-like touch before placing it on his neck, letting his thumb trace the line of his jaw. His eyes were soft yet starved, and they darted to his mouth. All the while, the Captain was silent, letting his beating heart and the flutter of his belly do the talking for him, hoping that he would sense them too as he found himself drawing closer, their noses brushing one another. His warm, sweet breath so close to his.

But then, several things happened all at once – there was a bang, a shout, a scream, and the cacophony of dying brass instruments. The Captain was roughly pushed from his chair, and the table followed, the edge smacking into his knees and spewing champagne and cigarette ash.

“Police!” came a voice from the stairs. “Nobody move! You’re all under arrest.”

The Captain, cowering behind the fallen table, gasped as Havers placed a hand on his shoulder and then to his lips. They sat utterly still, Havers watching the police through the reflection in the saxophones of the two musicians frozen on the stage.

“There’s not many of them,” Havers told him in a whisper. “If there was a distraction, you could herd others out through the back.”

“The back?” The Captain mumbled, listening to the metallic clang of handcuffs close around a man’s wrist.

“There’s a door behind the stage,” Havers told him. “You’ll know when to go. I’m sorry.”

The Captain frowned, searching Havers’ face for a sign that everything would be okay, but he found nothing. “You’re talking like you’re not coming too.”

“I’m not,” he said, pressing his hand over the Captain’s mouth to quash his protest. “This is the best chance you have of getting out of here with your reputation intact. You have your mum and your sister to think about, and I have no-one. If all goes well, I’ll find you again.”

He shook his head, trying to hold Havers’ arm to stop him from moving without drawing attention to their table. Havers pulled his hand away and replaced it with his mouth, his lips pressing against the Captain's in a vain attempt to convey a thousand things he didn’t have time to say. Then, he was gone, lurching from behind the table to retrieve their champagne bottle, the police yelling at him to stop and stay down.

The sounds of glass shattering against a wall, crystal rain tinkling across the bar as he shouted expletives and railed. Unable to dwell on the warmth still clinging to his lips, the Captain rushed to his feet, gathering as many people as he could on his way, ignoring the police’s shouts and he made his way to the stage. More glass fell against the walls as Havers continued to fight, others joining him, including a woman who ripped the beads off her dress and scattered them across the floor as an officer ran after those who were making for the exit.

All the Captain could see before he escaped into the dark was Havers smiling warmly at him as he was clasped in manacles.

It felt as if he’d been running for hours when he finally fell at his front door – his knees buckling underneath him on the doorstep as he tried to catch his breath, but his chest just seemed to be getting tighter. He shouldn’t have left. He shouldn’t have listened to him. Perhaps he could take his savings and bail him out? Yes. That would work! He could say he was his cousin – he didn’t know what kind of establishment it was, and he gets angry when he’s startled. He could promise to keep a close eye on him to make sure it wouldn’t happen again. It would be easy.

 _Yes_. All he had to do was force his legs to work and push on the handle, and he could go back for Havers.

He grabbed the door handle with both hands – the cold brass a kind relief on his burning skin – and pushed, but the large panel didn’t move. He tried again, wiggling the handle with an exhausted grunt to the same scenario. It took him longer than he would’ve liked to admit remembering he had his key in his pocket. Fumbling for it, he looked up at the silent house and the shadow passing in the upstairs windows and slipped the key into the lock and turned, listening for the click that told him he was a step closer to making everything okay again. He pushed a final time, and the door gave way before jamming again, revealing the empty mahogany corridor.

“Mum?” he called through the gap – the door’s chain glinting in the orange light of the house. “Mum, are you there? Can you let me in? You’ve left the door on the chain.”

Heavy shoes appeared in the gap, and the Captain looked up to find Walter, holding a black bag in one hand and the poetry book in the other. Even from this awkward angle and low light, he could see that his face was an ugly shade of puce.

“You got out then?” he said, grinding his molars. “They should’ve carted you off with the rest of them.”

“How did you-“ The Captain reeled back, his heart sinking into his stomach. “You told them…it was you.”

“I knew that tie wasn’t yours,” Walter told him, his calm demeanour sending a chill down the Captain’s spine. “You think I don’t know everything that comes in and out of his house? You think I’m stupid, boy?”

The Captain shook his head. “No, sir.”

“And then I find your disgusting book of _homosexual_ poetry under your pillow,” he said, dropping the bag to rip the book in half and throw the pieces through the gap – some of the pages being taken by the wind as the Captain struggled to collect them again, fragments slipping through his fingers as he shoved them into his pockets. “How dare you bring that smut into this house! How dare you bring shame to your mother and me.”

“I’ve done nothing wrong,” the Captain said staunchly. “It’s you who should be ashamed for treating my mother and me like shit. You don’t deserve her, and I know you make her ashamed every day with the way you treat her and your daughter.”

Slowly and with purpose, not taking his eyes off the Captain, he stepped closer to the gap in the door, the smallest flicker of a smile breaking his otherwise stone exterior. “I wasn’t the one caught going into a Molly house and…seen with another man there.”

The Captain shook his head, pressing a hand against the doorframe, hoping that if he pushed hard enough, the wall would crumble through his fingers and he could go inside and find comfort from his mother or Dottie. “It wasn’t like that,” he said. “And it wasn’t a Molly house – it was just a bar!”

“A likely story,” Walter said. “You disgust me, and I never want you to darken my door again.” He pushed the door closed roughly, almost trapping the Captain’s finger in the hinges. There was a metallic rattle from the other side of the door, and it opened again with Walter throwing the black bag at him. “Get out!”

Before he could slam the door shut, the Captain had slipped his foot in the door and was pushing against it with his shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere! It’s not what it looked like, and I can explain…”

“You are not to come back to this house!” Walter roared.

Next door, the living room curtains twitched.

“I can explain. Just let me explain!” the Captain said, choking on his own breath as he could see the shadow of his mother’s feet coming down the stairs. “Mum! Mum, tell him to let me in!”

“You’ve upset her enough for one day,” Walter spat. “Leave her alone and get off my property before I call the police again.”

This only made the Captain drive into the door harder with his shoulder, trying to wriggle through the gap. “Mum! Mum, please!”

Her feet came closer to the door, and when he saw her face, it was waxen with worry and concern – a sight that made him stop fighting, so he was trapped half-in and half-out. She pressed her hand against the door as though trying to stop herself from falling over, her eyes misting as she looked at him. “Is it true?” she asked quietly, resisting the urge to stroke his cheek.

The Captain closed his eyes, trying to will himself to speak. To say anything at all. “I…” he shrugged helplessly and repeated his mantra of the last few moments. “I can explain…”

“My darling boy,” she whispered, her shoulders shaking as she stepped away from the door, standing limply between her son and husband.

“Take your things and leave,” Walter told him, storming towards the door again and trying to force him out, pushing on his head and shoulders. “If you’re not gone in the next thirty seconds, I’m calling the police.”

Once again, the Captain looked to his mother for help, but she was avoiding his stare. Elizabeth was looking at the floor instead, swaying on her feet with her hand pressed against her chest.

“Mum… _please_. I have nowhere else to go.”

“You should leave,” she said hoarsely, turning away as Dottie began to wail upstairs, her body moving like she was wading through molasses.

Despite it this, it was still true that the first and last time he felt betrayed by his mother was as a child when she didn’t come for him at Christmas, because this time, he felt as if his mother had killed him. It was swift and almost painless – it didn’t allow him to experience the betrayal. Instead, he felt hollowed out, keenly aware that the only thing he could feel was nothing.

“Please let me say goodbye to Dottie,” the Captain implored, hoping that Walter or Elizabeth might allow him one kindness. “At least give me that much.”

“We don’t have to give you anything,” Walter told him. “Besides, we don’t want our daughter going anywhere near a pervert like you.”

The words echoed around his head as he stumbled from the door – whether he had been shoved away or went of his own accord, he couldn’t be sure. With an exhausted cry, his knees buckled under him as the door slammed shut, the sounds of the locks closing to him sounding like nails being hammered into his coffin.

Sitting in the sudden absence of sound, the Captain took three shaky breaths and looked at the sky. There were no stars tonight – all of them shrouded in thick, black clouds that made it look later than it really was. In the distance, the crying of a toddler, a mother hushing, and the triumphant tread of a stepfather.

When he had regained his balance and constitution, he got to his feet, tucking his bag of few belongings under his arm, and started to walk. He looked back at the house from over his shoulder, catching sight of the woman watching him from the window and the silhouette of Dottie in her arms, waving a chubby hand behind the glass.


	6. The Man

The grass, dripping with dew, licked eagerly at the Captain’s trainers and his ankles, leaving him with damp patches at the top of his socks that made him wish they hadn’t taken the short-cut across the field. As they trekked towards the men waiting in the distance, he pretended to listen to the coach; wriggling his nose as the grave, earthy fragrance of cut grass attacked his senses.

He adjusted his bat – one he’d saved up for weeks for – over his shoulder and marvelled at how beautiful a day it was. A family of sparrows were singing in a nearby sycamore tree, one of them playing behind the leaves and darting between the crooked branches. If he relaxed his eyes and followed the beams of light raining from the sky, he could see the particles of pollen twirling away from the daisies and daffodils.

When he looked up, he saw that the clouds were thin and wispy like a hesitant brushstroke upon a canvas, giving the sky a soft, never-ending quality that made him feel like preserved in some great renaissance painting. There really couldn’t have been a more perfect day for a game – thankfully, when the sun had been up for long enough, the dew would evaporate into nothing, leaving them with the ideal conditions for play.

“The boys are excited to meet you,” the coach said, unaware of the Captain’s wavering attention. What did he say his name was again? Herbert? Or was it Edward? “It’s been a while since we had a proper captain for the team.”

The Captain smiled, breathing in the warming air with a satisfied sigh. “I’m looking forward to trying my hand with a new squad.”

“What made you decide to leave your old club?”

“Nothing specifically,” the Captain said honestly, giving the coach a careless shrug. “I saw the opportunity and thought it might be a nice new challenge.”

Nodding thoughtfully, the coach put his hand to his forehead so he could better see the silhouettes ahead of them. “Well, I’m sure their loss is our gain either way,” he said with a smile. “You couldn’t have come to us at a better time.”

“Is that so?”

“Our previous captain received a pretty nasty injury and had to hang up his bat. Unfortunately, the vice-captain wasn’t keen on acting as captain,” Herbert-or-Edward told him shrewdly, scratching at this patchy beard. “I’ll never understand why he became vice-captain in the first place if he had no desire to lead when needed.”

“I suppose some people just aren’t cut out for leadership,” the Captain said. “The title of captain is perhaps more appealing than the reality of it.”

The coach nodded. “Perhaps. Now, we have a match against the Cavaliers next Saturday – I know it’s not a lot of time, but I hope it’s enough for you to make a good impression on the team.”

“I should imagine so,” the Captain said. “I’ve never been one to shy away from a challenge at any rate.”

“Then this lot should keep you on your toes,” he said, laughing heartily at a joke the Captain wasn’t privy to. His bulbous, red nose seemed to move independently of the rest of him, and the Captain did his best not to stare. “The weekend match isn’t a league game, so you don’t have too much to worry about. I didn’t want to pile the pressure on you on your first day with the club.”

The Captain smiled kindly, watching a white butterfly float past them. “I appreciate the thought,” he said. “But I always play my matches to win, and I expect my team to do the same.”

“That’s the attitude I like to see,” the older man said.

They were almost in touching distance of the other players – all of whom were entertaining themselves as they waited, some practising their batting or bowling, two racing one another up and down the field as a warm-up. Another three were huddled together, smoking, and laughing at something only they understood. They were all clad in their whites, doing the best to avoid the sun and blinding one another with their own shirts and trousers.

Coach Herbert-or-Edward tapped one of the smoking men – the one facing away from them, the one with the practically cropped hair who was standing with a hand in his pocket and speculating on what the new captain might be like - on his strong and dependable shoulder.

Time slowed around the Captain as he turned with everything becoming brighter, more fragrant, and much louder…and then he remembered that night and the world became a sad, cold shade of grey.

“Vice-Captain Havers,” the coach chirped, not noticing the way Havers’ spine straightened or the way his cigarette dropped from his fingers, scorching the grass. “I’d like you to meet the new skipper, Captain-“

“Yes…” Havers rasped, extending his hand in greeting. His mouth hesitated for a moment before fixing itself into an awed smile. “We’ve met before.”

The Captain nodded and clasped his hand, his palm sweating far more than he would’ve liked. He was grinding his teeth and trying to smile too, but it just came across as pained or winded – something he knew because the coach clapped him on the back as a mother would her child at dinner. As soon as it was polite to do so, the Captain pulled back his hand, smoothing it over his chest with an awkward cough. “It was a long time ago,” he told the coach quickly. “We were briefly neighbours as children, that’s all.”

Havers tilted his head, his smile slowly fading as he held his hands behind him. “Yes…that’s right,” he said.

“Small world, huh?” the coach laughed, checking his watch with a sigh. He clapped the Captain’s shoulder again. “I’ll leave you in William’s capable hands. He’ll introduce you to the rest of the boys, and I’m sure you’ve got plenty of catching up to do.”

“I imagine we do,” Havers said as the coach walked back the way they had come. There was a pause as the two old friends regarded one another – wondering how another ten years could have passed them by so quickly.

Silver streaks had prematurely begun to appear at the Captain’s temples, and he had narrow lines appearing at the corners of his eyes. Even with the gentle ageing of his face, his eyes were still as youthful as ever – shining like pearls in an oyster.

Havers, however, had barely aged at all. It seemed that only a few months, or two years at most, had passed when the Captain looked at him. As always, his collar was open with a button too many undone to be proper – a sight that now both infuriated him and made him want to grab him by it and kiss him. But that was a childish and youthful way to think; a way he couldn’t afford to think any more.

“Buttons, Havers,” the Captain said, bringing his bat down from his shoulder to lean on, his palm pressing hard against the handle. He was avoiding “You look unkempt, and I shan’t have my team looking slapdash.”

Raising a delicate brow, Havers hesitantly fastened buttons until the Captain nodded his approval, leaving only the collar open. “It’s nice to see you, too, Captain…” he muttered. When he didn’t respond, Havers noticed the Captain was staring at the grass with his teeth on edge. “I mean, what were the chances?”

“They were very slim indeed,” the Captain said tightly, taking a deep breath. He knew he should go and introduce himself to the rest of the team, but he couldn’t make his feet move – they had been sucked into an invisible quagmire, and for the first time in a while, he didn’t know what to do.

It seemed that Havers felt the same because just nodded, looking around the field as if he were hoping to find something else to talk about – forgetting, momentarily, that they could spend their time discussing cricket.

“Look,” Havers said eventually, keeping his voice low. “About what happened-“

“Nothing happened,” the Captain said sharply. “I don’t want to talk about it.” He twisted the bat on the ground, clearing his throat, then shook himself out of his stupor. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to meet everyone else.”

Havers blinked and gave him a solemn, stiff nod. “Very well, _Captain_ ,” he said, his voice dripping in bitterness and he slowly led him around the other players, introducing them by name and position.

The sun was at its peak, and they could still taste the basil in their teeth when Havers decided at the last minute he wanted to bowl as their new Captain stepped up to bat. The Captain’s fingers closed tightly around the handle as the two men stared each other out, Havers throwing and catching the ball a few centimetres in the air as he tried to gauge his approach.

“Come now, Havers,” the Captain said impatiently. The fielders were becoming restless around them, fidgeting on the spot, and trying to keep their legs limber. “If you’re going to flout my bowling order, you might as well hurry up and do it.”

He couldn’t see it, but Havers stood there with his tongue pressed against his incisor, trying not to roll his eyes or shout. To ask why he was acting so…the words failed him, as they so often did nowadays. Instead, he spun the ball in his hand once more before taking a deep breath, invisible pollen particles landing on his mouth, and running.

The Captain was on the balls of his feet, watching Havers’ arm as it whirled over his head and the quick release of his fingers. He only had a split second to catch the smile on Havers’ face before the ball bounced on the ground as if it were made of sponge, and came up sharply, flying high towards him. He quirked the bat into position and missed – the hard leather ball flying into his chest and thudding into his breastbone, taking the air he was breathing with it as landed with a dull clonk in the grass.

“No ball!” The Captain called out through a gasp, rubbing at his chest with a frown.

“I refute that,” Havers told him as he came to collect the ball. Several other players laughed behind their hands. “But I fear you won't listen to what I have to say about it.”

The Captain cleared his throat and stepped back up to the crease with a determined gaze. “Yes, well…you don’t get the final say in this. I’m the one calling the shots this time.”

Havers nodded and said nothing for the rest of the practice.

When the day had ended, and the sun was burning a fierce and rapturous orange low in the atmosphere, the Captain took a quiet moment in the clubhouse, watching his team leave from the window. He wasn’t counting how many players had left, but perhaps, that might have been wise.

He walked the length of the broad room, inspecting the newspaper clippings, certificates, and awards mounted on the off-white wall, a yellow tinge clinging to the walls. Among the articles and certificates were team photos – grainy black and white things that were trying to curl away from their pins. Somehow, the Captain’s eyes always managed to alight on Havers as he glanced over the team photos. Smiling in every shot with his trademark collar on show, he seemed as comfortable on the field as the wickets. He wasn’t wearing his cap in most of the photos, but in the one he was, it was covering his eyes, so he was only recognisable by the dimples in his cheeks and the curve of his chin.

The hall had a musty aroma, but it wasn’t something that a little air-freshener and a new rug couldn’t fix. He made a mental note of the things that could do with a spruce up – after all, a club with an organised, well-kept meeting place was a happy club. It could be a welcoming space for the guys to gather after their games or during lunch, a place where new memories could be made. If he had the time, tomorrow he could come by and give the flaking door and interior walls a fresh lick of paint – and at least that would help with the smell too.

“How’s your chest?” Havers asked from the doorway leading to the changing room, rolling up his sleeves.

The Captain hummed to himself and cleared his throat, glancing at his chest as if to check for an injury he already knew didn’t exist. “I don’t have a broken rib, so I think I’m fine. Thank you.”

Havers sauntered heavily into the room, coming to sit on the windowsill so he could feel the last of the day’s warmth on his back (and get a better look at the Captain.) He smiled when he saw his eyes flicker between him and the door but didn’t move in either direction.

“Prison was great, by the way,” Havers said, keeping his eyes pinned to the Captain as he defiantly unbuttoned his shirt again. “Thanks for asking.”

“I said I didn’t want to talk about it,” the Captain said stiffly. “And if I did, I’d say that I didn’t ask you to put yourself in that position.”

Havers smiled a crooked, charming smile and pressed his palms against the sill, his eyes softening a fraction as he tried not to show just how pleased he was to have gotten the Captain on his hook. “I know,” he said simply. “I’d do it again if I had to.”

“Don’t say that,” the Captain said, shaking his head and crossing his arms over his chest. “You don’t mean that. You were young and foolish and so was I…we’re different people now, Havers. Let’s say nothing more about it and put the whole horrible affair behind us.”

“As you wish,” Havers said gently, hoping that the Captain hadn’t noticed him flinch a second earlier. He swallowed the nothing lodged in his throat and tapped his fingers against the sill. “So…what brings you out here? When did cricket become your calling?”

The Captain rolled out his shoulders, looking at Havers with mild suspicion as he allowed himself the comfort of relaxing by a fraction. “I moved,” he said casually, waving a hand. “I needed a pastime to keep me busy. You?”

There was a brief pause as Havers pressed his slips together, trying not to smile too broadly. “I started playing in prison.”

“Ah.” The Captain pretended to brush a bug from his jumper that wasn’t there. “I see…Well…” His back had become rigid again, and he could only make a garbled noise as he tried to work out what to say next.

“It’s okay,” Havers said with a shrug. “I don’t know why you’re trying to avoid the issue so much…you weren’t the one who was there.”

“I’m well aware of that,” the Captain snapped. “And I don’t want to talk about it.”

Havers rose to his feet with a frown. “Yes, you’ve made that quite clear!”

“Then why do you insist on bringing it up?”

“Because I want to know if it made a difference!” Havers admitted, searching the Captain’s face for any flicker of the answer. “And because I want you to know that it’s okay…” he added gently. “It wasn’t great at the time; I’ll admit…but things are okay now.”

“Except it’s not okay,” the Captain said, doing his best to keep his voice even. “I’m the reason you got arrested in the first place!”

Havers shook his head, rolling his eyes impatiently. “No, you’re not. I chose to stay – it was on me. Have you really been beating yourself up over this for the past ten years?”

“Yes, because you don’t understand,” the Captain said, stepping closer and wagging his finger at him. “The police were there because of me! My stepfather followed me there and called the police – it should have been me they arrested. So yes, it is my fault, and I'm reluctant to talk about it because I’ve spent every day for the last ten years thinking of you in that miserable place,” – his eyes misted over and he dropped his hand, flexing his fingers – “and that was torture enough without having to hear about the reality too.”

It was suddenly hard to breathe the air, and the Captain wanted nothing more than to open the window, or failing that, jump out of it, but he was trapped on the spot by the small twitch appearing at the corner of Havers’ mouth.

“Why are you smiling?” the Captain frowned. “It’s not funny.”

“I know…It’s just…I’m quietly relieved that you still have a certain attachment.”

The frown didn’t budge from the Captain’s face – it was as much a feature of it as his mole. “Of course, I do. What kind of man do you think I am?”

Havers smiled, tilting his head. He had stepped forward, but the Captain hadn’t noticed – he was too busy trying to loosen his collar without unbuttoning it.

“A good one.”

“I led him straight to you…” The Captain said hoarsely, his eyes darting to the scuffed rubber floor. He cleared his throat and put his hands in his pockets, looking up again as he set his face to stone. “I mean, I led him to all of you.”

“You went home,” Havers blurted as it suddenly occurred to him, his cheeks draining of their usual rosy tint. “He sent the police…and then you went home.”

On reflex, Havers came forward again, raising his hand to touch his friend – whether on the shoulder, on the arm, or the cheek, he wasn’t sure where, nor did he really care – he just needed to touch him and let him know he was there - they both were - and that he was sorry. But the Captain turned away from him to collect that cricket bat he’d left leaning against the back wall.

“Yes,” he said. “And I’m going home now…have a pleasant evening, Havers.”

“Thank you. Good evening, Captain,” Havers said, holding his hands behind his back and squeezing his fingers as he caught and held the Captain’s gaze. “And, if I may say so, I’m looking forward to the next training session. I think you’ll be a wonderful asset to the team.”

For a fraction of a moment, the Captain smiled, but he swiftly pressed his mouth into a thin line and gave a stiff nod. “You're my Vice-Captain, so we need to work together as a team, even more so than the others. As such, please make sure you come to the next practice properly attired and with a modicum of respect for my bowling and batting order.”

Havers bit back his grin. “Yes, sir.”

After making a grumbling, coughing noise at the back of his throat, the Captain left with his bat over his shoulder, admiring the vivid pink glow ahead of him and ignoring the matching one he could feel prickling over the bridge of his nose and across his cheeks. There was a dull ache in his chest too, but he decided that was due to the blow he'd received earlier.


	7. The Man: II

Rain hammered against the window like the quick rhythmic beating of a drum, the tepid water washing away the summer dust clinging to the glass. A rumble of thunder rolled over the clubhouse as the Captain ran in, his feet splashing muddy water over his white shoes and trousers as he went. Havers was following close behind with his bat raised to cover his hair.

“It’s going to take days for the pitch to drain,” the Captain grumbled as Havers shut the door behind them.

“Here’s hoping it does so before the match,” Havers agreed, leaning his bat against the wall with water dripping from his cuff.

The Captain pressed his lips together as he tried to inspect the damage through the window, but it had become so saturated that it was like trying to decipher the original shape of a melted candle. He gave up within moment and turned away – but when he saw that Havers’ white shirt had become translucent and was clinging to the defined curves of his arms and shoulders, he decided to have another go at examining the window.

“You didn’t have to stay to help,” the Captain said, watching the sky light up and then fall dark again, feeling the raucous rumble in his feet and deep in his chest. “I’m sure you would much rather be at home in the dry, doing something more entertaining.”

“It’s quite alright,” Havers said with a shrug, fetching an old sheet he’d brought with him from the back of a frayed chair. He shook it out and laid it on the floor by the door, dust flicking into the air. “There’s nothing for me to do at home,” he said through a cough. “Besides, I think it was you who told me only a few days ago that I needed to work better with you.”

The Captain couldn’t help but smile as he brushed rain from his hair. “It’s good to see that you're taking that request to heart,” he admitted. They smiled at one another for a moment before another crack of thunder rattled the floor and startled them into flinches.

“Tea!” the Captain cried out, gesturing towards the kitchen with a nervous titter. “Can I get you some tea?”

“Yes,” Havers said quickly, his damp clothes sending a chill across his skin. “Yes, that would be great. Thank you.”

He nodded and marched to the kitchen, glad to be alone for a moment in the small, dingy space with the tap that always dripped no matter how much you tightened the knob. From here, he couldn’t hear the rain or the storm, just a gentle ringing as his ears tried to adjust to the sudden silence. When he lit the gas stove, the flame sputtered into life, and he warmed his hands over it for a minute before putting the copper kettle on to boil. While he waited, he took a tin of white paint from the cupboard under the sink and the brushes, bringing them back through to Havers who was rolling up his sleeves, smiling when he walked through the door.

“I don’t think that’s going to be enough,” Havers said, eyeing the paint can and then the back wall with suspicion.

“I think it’ll be enough for one coat,” the Captain said. “It’s not like we’re professional decorators,” he added, raising his voice over the thunder, and admiring the shadows highlighting Havers’ face as the lightning illuminated him and caressed his delicate features.

“You won’t get a full coat out of that.”

“We’ll see,” the Captain said, going back to the kitchen to finish making the tea. He came back with it in a chipped, white cup with a matching saucer sporting a small hairline fracture, handing it to Havers with a small smile. A little voice in his head hoped that their fingers might brush as they had done years before, but when they didn’t, he hid his disappointment behind a well-timed cough.

“Are you not having one?” Havers asked, blowing on his cup.

“No,” the Captain said, prising the paint can. The sooner they finished, the sooner he could go home and finally finish reading All Quiet on the Western Front. “I’m more of a coffee man.”

Havers raised an eyebrow, smirking into his mug. “Oh…so the offer was just for my benefit?”

“You looked cold,” the Captain answered, staring up at the wall, his paintbrush poised in his hand.

After a brief pause, Havers grinned broader and thanked him, his coffee-coloured eyes becoming soft as he caught sight of his reflection in the comforting drink. “How did you avoid getting as soaked as me anyway?”

A playful glint appeared in the Captain’s face, making him look, for the briefest moment, ten years younger. “Because I’ve always been faster than you.”

They lapsed into a comfortable silence as they painted, the empty lukewarm cup left to become cold on the table behind them. The Captain had started painting at one end of the wall with Havers on the other, quietly stepping an inch or two closer to one another as the storm kept raging outside, rattling the panes of glass in the windows and rattling the hinges on the clubhouse door. It occurred to the Captain that they had forgotten to bring in the stumps before the heavens opened.

“Do you still sail?” Havers asked after fifteen minutes, sick of the sound of squelching paint and the muffled echo of the weather.

The Captain paused with a frown, glancing at Havers who was putting all his attention on painting the fiddly patches around the light switch. “No,” he admitted, swiping his brush up and down the wall despite not having enough paint on the bristles. “I haven’t sailed since the day we…” He trailed off, clenching his jaw.

“Oh…”

Another ten minutes passed before the Captain spoke again. “Are you still a poet?”

It was Havers’ turn to pause then, and he twisted his mouth into a self-deprecating smile as he dipped his brush into the paint. “No, I gave that up a long time ago…the words wouldn’t come to me anymore.”

“Oh,” the Captain said, wishing he hadn’t asked. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Havers shrugged and let his expression turn into something more soft-hearted. “It’s okay…I was never that good anyway.”

“I thought you were very talented,” he said, thinking of the night he had spent curled up in bed, carefully savouring each of Havers’ words in the anthology and wondering if the stars and moon had always been that bright. “A little rough around the edges perhaps…but you had a lot of promise.”

“It was a youthful fancy, and I thought I was incredibly expressive and creative,” Havers said. He recalled his memories too - of the hours he spent writing whenever he got the chance – out in the garden, at his desk, lounging in his bed and watching the stars when his eyes refused to succumb to sleep. “We’ve both done a lot of growing up it seems.”

The Captain nodded to himself. “That's the natural way of things, and it was for the best. We weren’t exactly thinking or behaving rationally, were we?”

“No,” Havers agreed with a helpless sigh, his painting becoming slow and considered. “It’s a shame that our only date ended so fatefully. If we had been more sensible, measured people, we might have had something good.”

“Maybe,” the Captain said, his voice weighed down by the regret. “Was there…is there…anyone else? You’re a charming fellow, so I would imagine-“

“No,” Havers repeated with a ghostly smile, briefly catching the Captain’s gaze. “I mean…one or two…but there was never anyone I liked quite as much as…” he sighed again letting the omitted word dangle between them, shaking his head. “Did you ever find someone?”

The Captain licked his bottom lip and cleared his throat. “No…I always felt more comfortable in my own company after that weekend.”

Silence fell over them again as the rain finally began to subside, the thunder and lightning having been pushed away by the wild wind that had decided to leave the clubhouse and its old hinges alone. The sun was trembling through the thick clouds, trying to determine if it was safe to emerge again, its hesitant light causing the flooded ground to sparkle like broken glass.

“I told you it wouldn’t be enough,” Havers said, grinning broadly as the two of them stared at the two-metre strip spanning the height of the wall that remained dingy.

“Why do you always have to be right?” the Captain lamented, letting a laugh form at the corner of his mouth.

“It’s okay,” Havers said, rolling down his damp sleeves with a grimace. “I have a spare can at my place from when I did the hallway – I’ll go and get it – I shouldn’t be long.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“You don’t need to.”

The Captain nodded and smoothed his hand over his woollen cricket vest. “I know…I could do with the walk, that's all.”

* * *

It was a brisk twenty-minute walk after they'd crossed the field and danced around the puddles – the Captain pointing out a chaffinch as it crossed their path. He told Havers about the two starlings that frequented his shared garden and how he liked to scatter seeds and raisins for them every morning, and how he liked the way their feathers gleaned violet and emerald in the light. Havers spent the whole journey smiling and eventually admitted that he knew extraordinarily little about birds – all he knew was that some of them were insistent on destroying his tomato plants.

“Oh, that’s an easy problem to solve,” the Captain said, his eyes twinkling. “Birds don’t particularly like shiny or noisy things, so if you get a-“

Havers had stopped a few metres from his flat with a frown, finding his landlord standing outside, talking to a fireman – the truck parked a further few metres down the path. It took him a moment to notice the black smoulder coming from the roof and the smashed slate tiles on the ground.

“What’s going on?” Havers asked them, jogging the last few steps towards them with a frown. The Captain followed him at a distance with his hands in his pocket.

“Mr Havers,” the landlord said from his unseen lips, his long moustache covering them. “I’m dreadfully sorry for the inconvenience, but it appears the storm has really rather done us in.”

“What do you mean?”

“The lightning started a fire on the roof which spread to your flat, I’m afraid,” he said, gesturing to one of the blackened windows - the one that led to his bedroom.

Havers looked up at his flat with wide eyes, garbling for something to say. “How bad is it?” he asked hoarsely.

“We’ve tried to save as much of your personal property as we can,” the firefighter said, “clothes and the like, mostly, but it seems likely that there’s structural damage to the roof and ceilings. It’ll be uninhabitable whilst repairs are made.”

There was no colour in Havers’ cheeks, and his knees wobbled, making the Captain instinctively rush forward to put his hand on his shoulder. The landlord was just as waxen as Havers, and he slipped out his pipe and lit it.

“I’ll help you find temporary accommodation.”

“No need,” the Captain said quickly. “Havers can stay with me,” he said, pausing as Havers looked at him with furrowed eyebrows and a smile that didn’t know to bloom. “If you want to,” the Captain continued. “It’s not much, but the sofa is comfortable enough.”

With a jerky nod and bolstered by the Captain’s hand squeezing his shoulder, Havers thanked him before looking down to the ground where a snow-white cat was snaking around his ankles, turning its half-brown face and green eyes towards him.

“Virginia!” Havers cried, bending down to pick the cat up, the animal mewing as he stroked her neck.

“You have a cat?” the Captain said, gesturing towards the animal vaguely. Virginia craned forward to sniff his hands.

“Yeah,” he answered sheepishly. “Is that okay? She’s very well-behaved.”

The Captain relented without really putting up a fight, making a noise of indignation and recoiling as Virginia tried to take a swipe at his fingers. “Well…as long as she leaves the starlings alone, I’m sure It’ll be fine.”

* * *

Nestled behind a quaint park with a dirt path, the Captain’s ground floor apartment was simply decorated with an intricate red rug, the fibres flat and dull, and a wide bookcase in the hallway, and another on the back wall of the living room. His home smelled of freshly washed linens, warm oak, and smoke, and a low ceiling with brown painted beams. A calming, quiet rhythmic tick from the mantel clock was the only sound except for the muffled rustle of leaves from the tree by the window.

“This is beautiful, isn’t it, Ginny?” Havers said, looking around the room with wonder as he set Virginia down on the floor. She skidded a little on paws as she adjusted to the new floorboards and ran to hide under the console table behind the sofa. “How did you afford a place like this?”

“If you’re smart about it, you can do almost anything when you start again in life,” the Captain said with a shrug, bringing in what little Havers owned. “Make yourself at home. I’ll get you a drink.”

Havers sunk into the forest green sofa and shuffled on the lumpy seat with an exhausted sigh. Before he could finish his yawn, the Captain pressed a chilled glass into his hand, followed by a dip in the seat beside him. When his eyes had adjusted to the whiskey with a twist, he gave the Captain a slow smile. “You remembered.”

“Of course,” the Captain said, sipping his own with a noise of satisfaction. “I’m sorry about today.”

“It’s okay,” Havers answered, squeezing his eyes shut. “These things happen, I suppose. Thanks for letting me stay.”

“It’s the least I could do,” he said, swirling the amber liquid around his glass. “Besides, it might be nice to have some company for the first time in God knows how long.”

Havers raised his glass. “I’ll drink to that,” he said through a yawn. “Sorry, I don’t know why I’m so tired all of a sudden.”

“You’ve had a shock,” the Captain told him. “The adrenaline is wearing off.”

“Maybe,” Havers said, looking around the room, taking in the lack of photographs on the walls and the ornaments on the surface. The only picture was one of the Captain with his old cricket team on the windowsill and a spinning globe on the console table. “You have fewer possessions than me, and most of mine have burnt to cinders.”

The Captain smiled despite himself. “I told you it wasn’t much.”

Havers gave him a soft look and tapped his fingers against the glass, so it made a dull ring. “I was the same for a while,” he admitted, gnawing on his lip. “Didn’t want to own too much in case people found out about me and I had to leave again.”

There was no answer from the Captain; he just took a long drink with his eyes cast down to the cushion between them. He baulked when Virginia came out of her hiding place and pounced on Havers’ lap and made a disgruntled noise through his nose.

“I think that’s why I adopted Ginny,” Havers continued, stroking her head as she pawed at his thighs. “She was a commitment that I wouldn’t usually allow myself to have. Letting her come into my life was me telling myself that I deserved to stay. I could live my life in comfort. I deserved not to be afraid.”

“You were afraid?”

Havers shrugged, considering his own words and feelings with the wriggle of his nose. “Maybe that was too strong a word. On edge? Bordering on paranoid? I don’t know.”

“I’m sorry,” the Captain said, resting his glass on his knee and shaking his head. “I hate to think how many people felt the same after that night. How many lives I indirectly ruined.”

“You didn’t ruin any lives,” Havers told him kindly. “Not even indirectly. I wish you wouldn’t keep beating yourself up over it – haven’t you suffered enough?”

The Captain let out a small, mournful sigh and ran his finger around the rim of his glass. “Not as much as you or anyone else arrested.”

“Being made homeless, being torn from your sister, and having your mother stand back and watch as it happened feels pretty bad to me,” Havers said bitterly.

“She had Dottie to think about,” the Captain said with a shrug, “and God knows what Walter might have said or done to her if she tried to defy him.”

“Do you really believe that’s why she let you go?”

The Captain clenched his jaw and knocked back the last of his drink, the alcohol burning his lips and throat and warming his chest. “If it helps me sleep at night, I’ll try and believe anything.”

“Except that you’re innocent,” Havers pointed out with a smirk.

“That one is a little harder to believe, yes,” the Captain relented, putting his empty glass on the end table. He leaned his head back against the sofa, his eyes focusing on the lightbulb for no reason whatsoever – they didn’t know where else to look. “Do you still want to play in the match this weekend? I know you’ve got enough to worry about without me barking orders at you on the field. I can call in a replacement for you if needed.”

Havers shook his head, smiling fondly at the Captain and the exposed curve of his throat, and the tense set of his jaw. “No, it’s okay – I can play. It’ll be nice to do something that feels relatively normal. Besides, what else am I going to do with my time?”

“I don’t know,” the Captain admitted. “I’m just trying to help. It’s rotten luck.”

“Yeah…but I’m safe and so is Ginny, and we both have somewhere to stay for a while. Things could be a lot worse,” Havers said. “I wouldn’t like to be homeless again, certainly not at the moment.”

The Captain pressed his lips together in a melancholy smile. “Quite. It was hard enough when people had the money to help – I imagine it’s practically impossible to get yourself out of that situation now.”

Both men fell quiet as they thought about their pasts, neither of them ready to divulge more than was necessary out of their own feelings of shame and self-reproach. They had a quiet, mutual want not to make the other feel guilty, and they could already imagine what it was like for the other - they didn’t need to say it out loud and break their pretence that everything was okay and that none of it had affected them that much.

“I don’t think I ever thanked you,” the Captain said suddenly, a guilty pout on his lip. “Doing what you did that night…it probably didn’t have the effect you wanted since I was still thrown out…but you tried. You made a great sacrifice for me, not knowing what it could mean for you in the future, and I am incredibly grateful.”

Havers smiled and let his hand hover over the Captain’s knee before giving it a stilted yet reassuring pat. “Well…it was because I lo-“ he paused and pulled his hand away, taking a deep breath through his nose. “Because I cared for you a great deal. I want to assume you would’ve done the same for me.”

“Maybe not back then,” the Captain said, frankly. “Honestly, I’m not sure if I would now. It’s not a scenario I want to see either of us in again for me to find out.”

Despite the lukewarm response, Havers smiled, making the Captain question him. Havers finished his drink and let the Captain take the glass from him, staring at the light silver tone in his eyebrows and peppered across his hairline.

“I don’t know why I’m smiling,” he finally admitted, his eyes darting to the creases at the corners of his eyes. “We’ve squandered so much of our time…I meant what I said earlier, we really could have had something good.”

The Captain took a deep breath and exhaled with a whistle. “Maybe. We were rushing into things, and we didn’t know each other properly. We were different people back then, and we’re different people now.”

“You’re still as beautiful as you were,” Havers told him. “Perhaps even more so. You’re ageing so gracefully – I just wish we could have done it together. I suppose we still could, you know.”

“ _William_ …” the Captain began gently, but Havers stopped him by waving a dismissive hand at him.

“I know,” he said, smiling through his disappointment, “but I’ve had a rough afternoon – allow me some time to be sentimental this once before you officially break my heart.”

The Captain felt his heart flutter in his chest before it plummeted into his stomach, the motion making him feel as if he’d been pushed off a cliff by someone he trusted. “It’s not that I don’t…” he stopped and groaned at himself. “I mean, it’s not that I don’t feel…I can’t let us put ourselves in that situation again. We barely know each other.”

“We’ve known each other our whole lives.”

“We’ve known of each other our whole lives,” the Captain argued. “It’s not the same.”

“Maybe not,” Havers conceded with a sigh, picking at the corner of his thumb with his index finger, still looking at the Captain with wide eyes. “But there’s time for us to get to know each other now. Even if nothing comes from it, I still hope we can be friends as well as roommates and colleagues.”

The Captain smiled, relief flickering in his sky-blue irises. “I’d like that,” he said as he watched Havers yawn again, Virginia copying him from his lap. “You should get some rest.”

“Move out the way then,” Havers said, kicking off his shoes to swing his legs up.

“Why?”

“So I can sleep,” Havers laughed. “You just told me to get some rest.”

“No, no,” the Captain protested, grinning to himself. “When I said the sofa was comfortable enough, I meant for me. I’ve already put your things in my bedroom. There’s a lovely view of the park from the window, and you’ll be-“

He was stopped again by Ginny’s meow as she was elbowed out of Havers’ lap, and then by Havers himself as he caught his mouth with his – warm, rushed, and still sour with whiskey. The Captain let out a small gasp before melting against him and putting a hand to Havers’ hot cheek, allowing himself to close his eyes and kiss him back for a moment like he wished he had done ten years before. Electricity danced on the edge of his fingers, the feeling jolting him backwards as he realised what he was doing.

“We can’t,” he said through his flushed lips, straightening out his jumper. “We’re not careless young men anymore.”

Havers nodded, hiding the disappointment behind a smile as he stood from the sofa. “Of course…forgive me for being so forward,” he said, running his hand through his hair as he walked towards the living room door. “Will you do at least one thing for me? Think about what I’ve said,” he continued as the Captain nodded. “Think about it, and if you still feel the same tomorrow, I’ll never bring it up. We’ll be the friends we used to be as kids.”

His heart was pounding against his ribcage to the point of distraction, but the Captain nodded and somehow managed to make a breathless promise that he would, using all his willpower to stop himself from touching his lips which felt as if they were sparking and burning. The pleasant yet terrifying feeling became more intense when Havers left him with a hopeful smile, his soft feel padding across the floorboards.

When the Captain heard his bedroom door click shut behind him, he felt as if he could breathe again and took the opportunity to pour himself another whiskey to suppress the tremble in his body.


	8. The Man: III

Everything about him felt warm as his eyes lazily flickered open. The room was bathed in the golden early morning light, and it took the Captain a few moments to adjust to the brightness, but at least he had the comforting tenderness of the heavy linens wrapped around his legs to carry him into the morning.

Through the open window, he could hear the pleasant, noisy song of the starlings and Havers’ matching whistle as he scattered birdseed into the grass. He could lie there and listen to the dawn breaking every day and never get bored. There would always be something new to appreciate, like the way the starlings stopped their song for a few minutes as they ate, the way Havers sang his good morning to them on the days he was awake early enough to greet them.

A white cloud passed in front of the Captain, tiny feet pressing into his chest as Virginia turned and made herself comfortable in the folded sheets on top of him.

“Morning, Ginny,” the Captain said fondly, stroking her between the ears until she purred. “Ready for another beautiful day?” He asked her, turning his head to the window to see a golden leaf blow from the tree in the wind and Havers’ head bob past as he bounded back into the flat and began pottering around the kitchen. “How long do you think we can hide in here before we absolutely have to get up?”

“Not very long, I’m afraid,” Havers said regretfully, entering the room with a soft smile and silent footsteps, like a ghost content with its state of being. He placed a too-full cup of coffee – half a spoon of sugar, no milk – on the bedside table, centring it on the cork coaster without spilling a drop, and sat on the edge of the bed, reaching out to scratch Ginny behind the ear. The cuff of his vertical stripe cotton robe tickling her nose as he pulled his hand back.

The Captain sighed good-naturedly and gently hauled himself into a sitting position, causing Ginny to look at him with disdain. “Oh well, you can’t blame a man for trying,” he said, reaching for his coffee with a careful, steady movement. “You’re up early. I feel like we’ve swapped roles.”

“It’s a special day,” Havers said with a grin, running his fingers through the Captain’s sleep-mussed hair. “I thought you could do with long morning,” he explained with a grin, leaning forward to kiss his cheek. When the Captain swiftly moved his head to catch his mouth with his, Havers laughed and allowed himself to fall back on to his side of the bed, his head resting on the Captain’s shoulder.

“Oh good,” the Captain said, smiling into his cup and supping at the liquid therein. “I was worried you had forgotten,” he teased, allowing his other hand to curl around the cup to treasure its warmth.

The leather wristwatch, which was neatly laid beside the art deco lamp he’d acquired from Mrs Lamb upstairs after she had a clear-out, told them they still had some time before they were bordering on late. Havers, knowing this, kissed the Captain’s jaw, smiling against his stubbled skin, the scent of pine and linen emanating from him and drawing him in like a moth to a flame.

“I couldn’t forget,” Havers assured him, allowing their legs to tangle together in the sheets. “You’d never let me live it down if I did.”  
  
“You’re probably right,” the Captain said, dropping a kiss to Havers’ hair. “Good Lord, it’s the perfect morning,” he sighed, turning his head to the window again as more brown leaves shook themselves from the tree and nestled into the grass. “Do we really have to get up?”

“You’re the captain,” Havers said, kissing his shoulder. Though he suspected it through his bashful smiles and twinkling eyes, he never really knew the extent to which the Captain felt a thrill every time they pressed their lips to each other’s skin. “They’ll notice if you’re not at practice…but I’m sure we can squeeze in ten more minutes.”  
And so, they did. They lay there in the tangle of soft sheets, their bodies pressed close together, illuminated by autumn sunbeams, and listening to the starlings with steam from the coffee cup warming their faces.

* * *

“Then you, Sidney, you take first Slip when Woodward steps up to bat,” the Captain said as the team meandered towards the clubhouse, trying to rub the grass stains from his sleeve. “Unless, of course, they decide to use Patterson instead…in which case, we’ll swap you with Aman,” he finished, looking to the taller man behind him.

Havers let out an incredulous bark of laughter. “You want us to change the bowling order? After you told me, in no uncertain terms, that it should be respected?”

Smiling to himself, glancing at the ground, the Captain tried to keep him teasing remarks locked in his mouth. “Yes, Havers,” he said. “If they bring in Patterson, which wouldn’t surprise me considering Woodward’s injury, changing the order would be incredibly beneficial. It would throw the team off for one thing, for two, Sidney’s excellent with spin bowling, and for three, he’s left-handed. Patterson doesn’t play nearly enough for his team, and it will take him a while to adjust, leaving us in a rather prosperous position.”

“And if they risk sending Woodward?” Sidney asked.

“He’s injured,” Aman repeated with a grin. “He’ll struggle with pace bowling.”

“Exactly,” the Captain said, holding up his finger and wagging it proudly. “We’ll defeat this team yet; you mark my words. Now, that’s the basic play for tomorrow, but I’ll hammer out any final details with you all when we get there and see what the conditions are like.”

As they took the few steps up to the clubhouse, the team swarmed around the Captain – some running ahead, others trying to pat his shoulders and ruffle his hair – the ten of them bursting into an out-of-tune but heartfelt rendition of For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.

Through the gaps in arms, he could just make out the balloons stuck to the wall (all of which had now been painted without further issue), the several bottles of spirits sitting on the table, and the cake beside it, dripping raspberry jam.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” the Captain said authoritatively, “but what’s all this? Who said you could host a party in here?”

“Oh, turn it off for a bit, Cap,” said one of the other men over the din, collapsing into the nearest chair, “sit down and enjoy yourself for once, yeah?”

“And so say all of us, and so say all of us!” the other men finished, breaking into a mix of thunderous applause and raucous whoops.  
  
The Captain was pushed into a chair by the cake, an unseen hand lighting the candles with a match. He was urged to make a wish, but, as he looked at his team and at Havers at the other end of the table, smiling contentedly back at him, he couldn’t think of anything. After he’d blown out the flames and had begun to ease into his embarrassment as the guys started helping themselves to cake and pouring out glasses of whiskey and gin.

“A spot of music?” one man suggested, fiddling with the dials on the new radio by the window. Soon the static was replaced by the restrained, posh accent of a newscaster – the crackle of the speaker muffling his words. Everyone craned forward to listen when they realised what was being said.

“The laws, passed today by the Reichstag, call for the protection of German Blood and Honour, forbidding the marriage between Jews and Germans and-“

Aman pulled the radio plug from the wall with a sneer, shaking his head. “This is supposed to be a happy occasion.”

With a grumble of agreement, they settled into the afternoon, but the Captain kept glancing over his shoulder at the radio, frowning. It was only when Havers clapped him on the shoulder and poured him a drink that he decided to allow himself time to enjoy himself with his friends.

For a while, they smoked and drank and ate. The Captain almost forgot every birthday that came before this one; usually, he’d sit there in the quiet of his flat thinking about his mother and the increasingly distant vision of his father, reflecting on this strange anniversary that didn’t seem to exist anymore. With no family to share it with, and too closed off to the people he knew, lest he gave away something about himself that he’d rather not, he didn’t usually tell anyone it was his birthday. Plus, he never wanted to open the opportunity for anyone to ask if he was seeing his family later to celebrate.

He was thinking about the sudden change from last year’s sombre affair to this beautiful one over a whiskey sour and playing a game of bridge when Havers stood up, and the others fell quiet.

“Apparently, as Vice-Captain, it’s fallen to me to speak on behalf of the squad,” he said, pretending that the job of embarrassing him further was a chore he’d rather not do. “We know you’ve only been our captain for a few months, Cap, but the lads and I are pleased to have you on our team. I don’t think our innings have been this good since Fletcher spiked the Hollsworthy team’s water.” The members of the team who had been there at that event snorted with laughter.

“Strict but fair, and with a great eye when it comes to tactics,” he paused to look the Captain in the eye, allowing his smile to become soft by a fraction. “We couldn’t ask for a better man to be our captain. You’ve made us all better players and a stronger team…and as such, it was only right that we all banded together to help make you a better player,” he said with a cheeky grin.

Sidney entered the room again, the Captain unaware that he had left at all, carrying a pair of knee pads tied with twine – everyone bursting into laughter as though they were hearing the joke for the first time.

“It’s about time you actually wore some of these, Cap,” Sidney told him, handing them over with a smirk. “Don’t think we haven’t heard the state of your knees after every game. They’re shot, Sir.”

The Captain grinned, his cheeks flushed with joy and light-hearted shame in equal measure. “It’s not my diving that’s the problem.” He gestured to the discarded candles littering the table. “It’s my age.”  
“You’re not that old,” Havers insisted, sitting back in his chair, and lighting a cigarette.

“Older than I’d like at any rate,” he said, before realising he had spent entirely too long staring at Havers’ profile and hadn’t thanked the rest of the squad.

They stayed until their heads were fuzzy and the Captain felt like he might fall asleep in his cake despite having the whole evening ahead of them. Still, the cool autumnal air jolted him awake as they took a slow stroll back to the flat – the Captain with his new kneepads under his arm and Havers with the remnants of the cake on a plate and hidden from the air with a cloche.

The warm, content feeling spreading through his chest, head, and limbs made time feel like it was standing still, and he would’ve been happy to spend eternity floating through this small bubble of time, but as always, life had other plans for him.

She was standing at the front door, pushing the bell for their flat without much luck, shifting her weight from leg to leg and scuffing her sensible black shoes together. Tied back with a golden ribbon, her dark ringlets seemed to be fighting against the restraint – strands falling about her face and tickling the nape of her neck. The pale-yellow coat she was sporting only highlighted her elegant pallid complexion and the ruddy colour of her chubby, youthful cheeks and nose.

“Can we help you, Miss?” the Captain asked, stepping up behind her, making her turn to face him with a start. “Are you lost?”

If she had grown into her chin, she might have been charming with those blue eyes so like his own.

“No,” she said quickly, scanning his face with suspicion, and then at Havers before deciding the Captain was of more interest. “No, I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.” She bit back her nervous smile. “I don’t know if you remember me…but I think you’re my brother.”

He had never sobered up so fast. On closer inspection, he should’ve guessed it was her from the shape of her chin and their mother’s shiny hair, but…deep down, he next expected this day to come, so she wasn’t the first thing on his mind.

“Dottie,” he breathed, garbling to fill the silence as he tried to find something to say.

“So you do remember!” she said with a beaming grin, clutching to what the Captain already knew to be one of their mother’s handbag. “May I come in? Oh,” she added, noticing her brother turn his head towards Havers with a frown. “Sorry, how rude of me. I’m Dorothy,” she said, holding out her hand to Havers. “And you are?”

Havers smiled courteously and balanced the cake plate in one hand. “William. Lodger and friend.”

“What a wonderfully simple yet expressive epithet,” she said with a charming smile that reminded him of her brother. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

With an amused smile, he kissed her hand and made a show of trying to bend low as if she were princess, eliciting a silly giggle and a blush from her as she snaked her hand back. The Captain subtly moved between them, so his new kneepads hit him in the arm – a silent order for him to stop showing off.

“Epithet is a big word for a little girl,” Havers said with a raised brow.  
  
Quicker than the snap of fingers, Dottie’s face became hard with a frown before she raised her chin and folded her arms across her chest – her mother’s bag swinging gracelessly from her bent elbow like a broken pendulum in a grandfather clock. “I’m not a little girl,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “I’m fourteen.”

“You’re _twelve_ ,” the Captain said brusquely, smiling a little when her resolve cracked at being caught in the lie. “Does your father know you’re here, young lady?”

“No,” she said, a glint of mischief in her sapphire eyes. “We told him we were going on a shopping trip for a few days, and then go to the beach – the beach is always nicest when it’s cold, and no-one’s around, don’t you think? Anyway, he wasn’t all that interested beyond telling us not to spend all of his money on frivolities as we left.” She babbled with barely a breath, leaving the Captain to blink at her absently.

But one word kept needling him in the throat.

“We?”

“Mhm,” she hummed, being deliberately evasive. Much like her father, though far less sadistically, she enjoyed watching him fidget and become on edge – it was the first time in her short life she had the opportunity to have all the power, and by God, she was going to take it. “It’s was Mama’s idea to come, and we’re staying in a hotel nearby.” Grinning at her older brother’s white features, she smiled sweetly and gestured to the door. “As I asked before, may I come in? We’ve got rather a lot to catch up on. Oh!” she gasped suddenly – her body jerking wildly. “I almost forgot…happy birthday!”

* * *

They whispered their squabble in the kitchen as the Captain made tea – he trying to get Havers to stay, and Havers insisting that he left because ‘my presence didn’t exactly help last time, did it?’ All the while, Dottie sat on the sofa with her skirts splayed and the handbag balancing on her lap. She was doing her best not to be nosy around the living room and sat with her ankles crossed – very much an image of their mother in her youth.

In the end, Havers left, risking giving the Captain a silent kiss on the cheek and a squeeze of the hand, whispering, “you’ll be fine” into his ear. Virginia followed him out with an annoyed mew.

“So…” the Captain said expectantly, sitting in the armchair by the sofa once he’d handed her the tea. He became aware of the grass stains still clinging to his skin and clothes and hoped none of it would brush on to the furniture.

“I’m not sure where to start,” Dottie admitted with a grimace.  
“Then, I will,” he said with a sigh, scratching at his jaw. “You and mother have come to visit?”

She hummed a yes as she drank from the cup, her brow wrinkled with concentration. It was brewed much too strong for her, and it hadn’t been sweetened, but that’s how she claimed she took it. “It was all her idea…but she lost her confidence in coming this morning. I tried to get her to come with me but…I think she was scared to see you again. Or scared that you wouldn’t want to see her.”

Something deep in the Captain felt off-kilter, and he pressed his lips together as if it might ground him. “Is that right? How much do you know?”

“Less than I’d like,” Dottie pouted. “Mama said that you and Father argued, and he threw you out. She said her greatest regret was allowing it to happen,” she finished, her face growing grave. There was still a flicker of innocence in her as she leaned forward eagerly. “What did you argue about?”

“Nothing,” he said, a little too quickly, and immediately regretting it as she visibly grew more interested. The Captain waved his hand dismissively, and she sat back on the sofa with a disappointed sigh. “Maybe I’ll tell you when you’re older,” he relented.

Satisfied with the compromise, she continued. “She sent me over with some things for you. A birthday present, I think, and a letter."

The Captain eyed the handbag, raising his brow. He rested his chin in his hand and his elbow on the chair arm, absently tapping his foot on the floor. “Did she now?”

“She used to tell me stories about you when I was little,” she said, taking another sip of tea, clearly not ready to surrender the power those gifts gave her. A reincarnation of Hermes who was taking her time with her tasks – enjoying the change of scenery. “I loved hearing the stories about the brother I didn’t know. She made you sound like a hero…a tragic one, but a hero, nonetheless. She said she thought you’d be a lot your father by now.”

For a moment, he wondered if his mother’s assumption about him was right. He certainly wasn’t a hero – that was just an exaggeration to hold the attention of a little girl. But was he like his father? Admittedly, he did cross his legs like him in that relaxed, languished way, and he enjoyed reading the paper in the morning – and sometimes he did it whilst listening to the news on the radio, much to Havers’ amusement. And sometimes, he did let his cigarette burn too close to his fingers when he got distracted as he did…but he couldn’t be sure he was like him in personality. He’d been gone too long, and he had only been a child – John had surely only showed him what he wanted a child to see.

“She kept every letter,” Dottie was saying, and the Captain couldn’t be sure what she had said before that if she had said anything at all. “That’s how we knew where you lived. She always managed to find your letter before Father got to the post.”

The Captain nodded slowly, smiling a little bitterly and wiping his sweaty palm on his cricket vest. “I always hoped she’d write back if I left my current address at the bottom.”

“I think she wanted to,” Dottie said carefully. “I mean…she did give me a letter to give to you, after all. Maybe she just never knew what to say?”

A small silence fell between them – a silence that made Dottie stare down at her tea and wriggle her nose, almost as if she were trying to make herself laugh in the quickly cooling reflection.

“How is Walter these days?” the Captain asked tightly, scratching the arm of the chair with the short nail of his index finger. It was a morbid fascination that made him ask rather than a genuine want to know.

“He’s fine,” she said, abandoning her cup to the side table. “Sits in his study, drinks…sometimes graces us with his presence when he’s in a good mood.”

“No change over the last ten years then,” the Captain said, smirking a little to himself, but when he looked up at his sister, she was wearing a troubled frown and a crease in her forward that aged her, but perhaps not in the way she wanted. “Is everything alright?”

Dottie bit her lip and sucked on it, much like she used to as a toddler and the Captain had the sudden urge to bundle her up in his arms and tuck her into bed like the last ten years hadn’t happened.

“I probably should’ve told you this first, but…” she paused to shrug helplessly at him, somehow both an apology and a show of bemused delight. “You’re dead,” she said plainly.

The words hung around their heads like a gadfly, and blinking back his surprise, he choked out a throaty laugh. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’re dead,” she said again, the humour falling away from her as quickly as it had embraced her. “The town thinks you’re dead.” There was a darkness about her shoulders, and she fiddled with the handles of the bag as she wracked her intelligent brain for the best way to deliver the news. “That night you left…or early the next morning…I can’t recall, we never talk about it. Mama only told me the story once…anyway, Father took your boat out of the marina and, I don’t know how, but he sank it.”

A sudden absence in the Captain’s chest made him feel like he was falling in a dream, and he’d twitch himself awake any moment.

“He came back and told everyone you’d run away after the argument,” she continued, swallowing the shame that didn’t belong to her. “When you didn’t come back after a few days, he filed a missing person’s report and told them you'd taken the boat. Eventually, I don’t know how long it took,” she said apologetically, “they managed to recover the wreckage, but, of course, they never found your body.”

She opened the handbag and rifled through it, letting the Captain stew in the news of his own death. When she found what she’d been looking for, she leaned across to hand it to him – a folded local newspaper clipping, a little yellow with age but otherwise perfectly preserved. The Captain unfolded the paper with hesitant fingers and was met with the photograph of a fair youth he didn’t recognise any more.

“There wasn’t a funeral,” Dottie said, a palpable regret souring her tongue as she watched him read his own obituary. “Since they didn’t find your body, they didn’t have anything to bury. Father told everyone there was a private memorial, just for family, but obviously, that was another lie…and since Mama was so distraught by the whole grubby affair, everyone kept their distance, so they didn’t make her feel worse in her grief. No one had a reason to believe it was nothing more than a tragic accident. Father is still, after all these years, under the impression that I think you’re dead too. It’s been a strange ten years.”

The Captain’s throat had gone dry, and his hands quivered around the paper and his younger self – his static eyes twinkling back at him as though he were pleased that he’d finally been let in on the secret too. He folded the paper and handed it back with a sniff and the scrunch of his nose, a disapproving sound bubbling at the back of his throat.

“Are you okay?”

It was a stupid question, but a fair one. She knew the answer, but what else could she have asked?

“I don’t know,” he said with a heavy sigh. He laughed a nervous laugh, which only encouraged Dottie to do the same. “I’ve never died before…you don’t really get to do that more than once, do you?”  
“You’ve been dead a long time now, so I wouldn’t worry about it too much,” she said, trying to lighten the atmosphere. “But I suppose if you wanted to, you could pick a new name and identity tomorrow and it probably wouldn’t make much difference.”

The Captain raised his eyebrows, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Yes…yes, I suppose I could, couldn’t I?”

For a brief moment, they smiled at one another – softly, and with reverence, like the smile that comes to you when you feel the warm glow of the sun on your skin in a cold church after whispering a Hail Mary. Two kindred spirits recognising each other – he when he used to be as sure and carefree as her, and her, hoping she could be like him one day, so relaxed and suave, striking it out on his own.

Dottie dipped her hand into the bag again and pulled out a box wrapped in brown paper and tied up with string, an envelope tucked between the strands, and, slowly with a frown, handed it to him, saying that Mama still wraps her gifts like that too.

As he put the letter aside and unwrapped the brown paper, he felt like an eight-year-old again – fizzing with excitement and with his breath caught somewhere between his throat and lungs. He winced as he accidentally ripped the paper in his childhood eagerness, then relaxed a fraction when he remembered that sort of carelessness didn’t matter anymore.

He recognised the box – a silver, Edwardian thing with a floral design embossed on to the metal – one of the prettiest and most expensive things in their house when he was growing up and something he was never allowed to touch with his sticky or muddy hands. But he loved sitting on his father’s knee and listening to the stories he could tell about its contents.

It was still the same when he lifted the lid but with one new addition that didn’t quite belong. Buttons upon buttons lay in the box - one from his grandfather’s jacket, one from his grandmother’s cardigan, one from his very first pair of shoes. Another, from Mama’s favourite blouse, and even one from her wedding dress – and he found he could still remember each story as he looked through them. He thought that, maybe one day, if she ever gave him the opportunity, or if he ever got to see her again, he would tell Dottie these stories too.

But it was what was lying in the corner of the box that held his attention the most. A king from an incomplete, abandoned chess set, still stained with a little blood if you looked close enough – a relic he always assumed that had been lost in the trenches or buried in that cold spot in Belgium. He gently allowed himself to touch the top of it with his fingertip and then snapped the lid of the box shut as he could see Dottie from his periphery, leaning forward once again.

He coughed and shook away any of his boyhood feelings. “Thank you for bringing this over.”

“It’s okay,” Dottie said, getting to her feet and smoothing out her skirts. “As I said, all of this was Mama’s idea…and I should be getting back to her. She’ll worry if I’m gone too long.” She smiled and pulled on the coat she’d left resting behind her. “Would you like me to give her a message?”

The Captain considered it for a moment, rising from his chair too, glancing at the silver box with a reminiscent air. “Tell her…tell her I’ll be here tomorrow evening after seven if she changes her mind…and that I said thank you for everything.”

Dottie nodded and then came barrelling towards him, thudding against his muscular frame and wrapping her short arms around him. Her cheek pressed on his chest, and even through a vest and shirt, he could feel the warmth radiating from it.

“It was nice to meet you,” she mumbled, smiling when his shock had subsided, and he hugged her back, resting his chin on the crown of her head. “I’ve never met a ghost before…they’re not as bad as people make them out to be.”

The Captain tittered. “It was nice to see you again…you used to be so quiet, what happened?” he teased. “Ow!” he moaned after Dottie pulled back and playfully punched his arm, both grinning like school children.

As soon as she left, skipping merrily down the road, swinging their mother’s bag by her side, the Captain poured himself a whiskey and collapsed into his chair. He stared intently at the letter – like it might vanish as smoke does if he didn’t keep his eyes on it - until he'd finished half of his drink. He told himself he was being ridiculous, it was just a letter - and so, he tore into the envelope.

* * *

_My Darling Boy,_

_It’s taken me ten years to write this letter – for this, and so much more, I’m sorry. I’ve missed you more than words could ever say…but you’re a grown man and stranger to me now, and I can’t help but feel I had a hand in killing you. You’re still a boy to me when I think of you – a young man with the world at his feet – how strange it is to have a child that is so dead and yet so very alive._

_How I wish I could go back and do things differently that night – it is my greatest regret. You kept calling for me, begging me with your eyes, and I did nothing…what sort of mother does that make me?_

_I’ll admit that I was shocked that night and so very confused – I still am, if I’m honest, which I want to be. You deserve that much. I can’t pretend that I know how you came to be the way you are, nor can I pretend that I’m comfortable with it or understanding. Sometimes I catch myself praying this has all been a terrible misunderstanding, and we all came to blows over one of those girls who were very wild and modern at the time. You know the ones I mean - the short hair, the ones who wore trousers despite it being rather improper. But it never turns out that way._

_Perhaps I am an old-fashioned woman by all accounts…but you’re my son, and I love you. I’ll always love you._

_I’ve thought about you every single day, and it breaks my heart, knowing I must lie about every single day, but I also know that heartbreak is nothing compared to what you have undoubtedly suffered._

_Happy Birthday, My Darling. I hope you’ll accept your father’s trinkets, Dottie’s love, and my apology._

_All my love,_

_Your Devoted Mother._

* * *

It wasn’t much, but it was enough.


	9. The Man: IV

Fifteen months seemed to pass them by without them really knowing it. The seasons passed in a deftly elegant cycle – melting into one concrete and tangible block of time on which they could cling to, so different from the flickers in time they had been graced with before.

Last Christmas, when the landlord said Havers could move back in, he politely declined, saying that the temporary accommodation was closer to work and the cricket ground. He’d gotten used to having the company, but thank you for the many happy times in this flat.

They spent many evenings sitting together on the sofa, silently reading their books in the comfortable quiet, occasionally reading out passages they particularly enjoyed to one another. Havers even tried writing again, tapping his pen against the page as he admired the Captain’s profile, unaware of the loving scrutiny he was being put under. Virginia often came and nestled between them, purring peacefully as they both went to stroke her behind her ears, their knuckles bumping against one another and making them chuckle.

Over the months they had managed to accumulate a variety of potted plants on the windowsills of their living room and bedroom: basil, parsley, mint, baby radishes and beetroot, a tomato plant that was growing a little too tall. There was even a pot of ivy in the bathroom, and the apartment always had a mildly earthy, herbaceous scent that became indicative of home. The only issue they had was keeping Ginny away from the tomatoes and ivy – shooing her out every time she tried to sneak into the bathroom with one of her owners or when she felt particularly mischievous whilst roaming around the living room.

Dottie had visited twice more since his birthday – neither time she had been accompanied by her mother, but still, she allowed herself to stay nearby, in case she decided she could see him again after all this time. Havers stayed on Dottie’s instance, and much like her parents and brother, he found himself being unable to say no to her most of the time – only asserting his authority when she tried to irritate him into spilling what he knew about The Argument.

“The more you pester, the less likely it becomes that I’ll tell you,” the Captain warned her. “If you can’t do as you’re told now, how could I trust you with the truth later?”

“It must have been bad,” she said thoughtfully, unaware of the edgy look the Captain was sharing with Havers. “Father wouldn’t have killed you otherwise…did you kill someone? Did you find out something scandalous involving Father? Did either of you commit a crime? Did Father discover something scandalous about you?”

“Dorothy Rose!” The Captain snapped, causing both Havers and Dottie to lean back in their chairs with wide eyes. Havers, however, recovered quickly and struck a similarly brotherly concern at her. “Will you have some bally respect? I’ve told you no, and so have your parents. It’s not polite to pry, and you are to keep out of it as we’ve asked.”

With a wobbling bottom lip, Dottie got up from her chair and began pacing up and down the living room, her hands balled into tiny fists as she railed against her brother. “Well, when will anyone show any respect for me?” she asked, stopping in front of him with a frown. “I am lied to all the time, and I’ve been asked to lie for most of my life. I’ve been torn from my brother and Mama is sad most of the time, and I don’t understand any of it! No-one will explain to me why our family is so broken, and I’ve had enough! Whatever happened, I’m old enough and strong enough to take it!”

“I said no!” he said coldly, boring into her with a determined, unblinking gaze.

Letting out a petulant whine and groan, she stomped off towards the bathroom in a fugue of teen angst and genuine upset, slamming the door behind her as she yelled out: “I hate you! I thought you were going to be different, but you’re just like them!”

Squeezing his eyes shut, guilt overriding his heart – something that didn’t happen quite as much as it used to – the Captain made a move to follow her, but Havers gently placed a firm hand on his chest.

“Let me talk to her,” he suggested quietly. “She’s angry with you and her parents…it might be easier for her to talk to someone not related to her.”

“Fine,” the Captain said, his face wracked with consternation as he waved a glib hand. “Don’t say anything…incriminating.”

“I’ll be extremely discreet,” Havers promised, smiling softly when the Captain took his hand from his chest and kissed the heel of his hand, squeezing his fingers.

When he let him go with a grateful and trusting nod, Havers crossed the hallway as though he were trying not to frighten a trapped bird. He knocked on the bathroom door with the edge of a crooked finger, bracing himself in case she decided to take her anger out on him regardless. “Are you okay, Dottie?”

There was a long quiet stretch, and Havers pushed his ear against the door, hoping to hear what she was up to. The closer he listened, the louder the muffled sniff on the other side seemed to be.

“Mr Havers,” she said finally, trying to keep her voice even. “I’m terribly sorry for my outburst…goodness knows what you must think of me.”

“I think you’re a courageous girl who’s been put in an incredibly unfair and upsetting situation,” he said earnestly. “If anyone’s entitled to a little outburst, it’s you.”

“You should try telling my brother that,” she said pointedly.

Despite the circumstances, Havers let out a feather-like chuckle that he hoped would tickle Dottie. “I will, don’t you worry about that…but remember that he’s in the same horrible position as you.”

“No, he isn’t,” she fired back snottily. “He knows the whole story, and I don’t.”

“He wants to tell you, sweetheart, but it’s difficult for him,” he said with a sigh, tracing the whorls and notches in the wood with his finger. “He wants to respect your mother and her wishes, and he doesn’t want to upset your father should he discover that you know…he has your best interests at heart. It’s a delicate matter that destroyed your family once before, and I’m sure he doesn’t want to let it come between you again.”

“But I won’t tell anyone,” she mumbled.

Havers nodded – a useless gesture since she couldn’t see him. “I know that, and I barely know you, so I’m sure he knows too…but the thing is, Dottie, he’s been through so much. When your father told him to leave, he had to live by new rules for himself to help him start again…and that meant, to him, never talking about it…and it’s still hard for him to do so now. Hell, it took him a long time to open up to me about all he’s been through, and we’ve known each other since we were younger than you are now.” He paused and ran the tip of his tongue over his bottom lip, sighing as he tapped his fingers restlessly on the doorframe. “Which is even more incredible when you consider that I was there that night too.”

There was a pregnant pause and then the click of the lock. Havers stepped back as Dottie pulled open the door with twinkling, red, interested eyes.

“You were there?”

“For part of it,” he clarified.

“Can _you_ tell me what happened?” she asked shrewdly.

Havers shook his head. “Absolutely not. It’s not my story to tell, and I would never betray your brother’s confidence like that.” He gave her an apologetic look as she seemed to shrink back into herself. “He loves you, and he doesn’t want to lose you…and bringing this up now could mean that he does.”

“Did he do something wrong?” Dottie asked, pursing her lips, and dropping her gaze. “Because the way everyone talks…the way Father reacted…it feels like he did something terribly awful.”

Sucking on his lip for a moment, Havers considered what to say to this poor, confused young girl and wondered what the Captain would say. It felt wrong to dismiss her out of hand. “No, he didn’t,” he said firmly and kindly, lightly touching her arm to get her to look at him. “He is one of the most principled men I’ve ever had the privilege to know…and I can assure you with complete certainty that he’s done nothing wrong. It’s just…some people believe he did, your father being one of them, but they’re wrong.”

Dottie tilted her head, willing herself not to cry again. “But I don’t understand how…”

“I know,” Havers said regretfully. “But if I know your brother like I think I do, and if he says he’ll tell you one day, then I believe him. He adores you…but he likes his privacy, and just like I won’t betray his confidence, he won’t betray your mother’s either, no matter how much he wants to be honest with you. He’s trying, Dottie, and he doesn’t deserve your anger.”

Ten minutes after, the three of them were sitting near on the sofa, hunched over the coffee table sifting through the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

But all that was over a month ago and, despite it only being the first, the December weather had come quickly, a chill running deep through the apartment and the bones of its inhabitants. Frost attacked the windows and tried to paw at their plants. The dark mornings and evenings gave them a sense of security that the light couldn’t, leaving them a warmth that encouraged careful physical affection – something they indulged in the comfort of their four walls now the cricket season was over, and they were spending more time at home. Not that they were becoming complacent in their affection – they still jumped away from one another when they heard footsteps on the stairs outside, and they did little more than kiss lest someone heard something unsavoury through the thin walls.

The elephant in the room, however, was that neither of them had said those three important words. There seemed to be a silent agreement that they couldn’t – it made things too real. It opened them to a new stage of their relationship. Daunting – forbidden —a what if lingering in the backs of their minds.

“Hey, sorry, I’m late. Hectic day,” Havers said, coming through the front door, bundled in his woollen coat and scarf, only to be hushed by the Captain who was sitting forward in his chair, listening to the radio.

“- said Alfred Blunt, the Bishop of Bradford,” the newscaster droned, taking a small pause to indicate the end of that story. “The German Fuhrer, Adolf Hitler, announced today that it’s mandatory for all Aryan boys between the ages of ten and eighteen to join the relevant factions of his party’s children’s organisation, the Hitler Youth.”

Havers twisted his mouth, and he unwound his scarf from his neck, hanging it on the hook in the hallway with his coat. “That man,” he said, spitting the word with contempt, “is training those poor boys for a battle, you mark my words.”

“I imagine he’s disappointed no-one retaliated when he seized the Rhineland,” the Captain answered, shifting closer to the radio. “I’m not sure the King telling the military to stand down was a wise idea…if Hitler thinks he can get away with violating the Versailles Treaty, what more will he think he can get away with?”

“It’s certainly a chilling thought,” Havers agreed, coming up behind the chair and putting his frigid hands on the Captain’s shoulders. When he sat back far enough, he dropped a kiss to his head in a tender greeting. “But the King is trying to stop us from going to war, which might not be the worst thing. The country can hardly afford to start another war.”

“It’s not us who would be starting the war; it’s Germany.”

Havers rolled his eyes and squeezed the Captain’s shoulders. “You know what I meant. Don’t be facetious.”

“It’s absurd,” the Captain said, taking his cigarette case from his pocket. “You know, I was talking to Eddie Fletcher-“

“Oh, how’s he doing?” Havers asked, coming round to sit on the arm of the Captain’s chair. “Is he still playing for the Tigers?”

“Yes, he’s doing very well there actually,” the Captain said, speaking from the corner of his mouth as he lit his cigarette and offered one to Havers. “Anyway, I was talking to him today in the newsagents, and he doesn’t see what’s so wrong about the Nazis taking back control of the Rhineland. In fact, he thinks it’s a good thing – he says it was their land anyway and the Treaty was unfair. It’s bad enough that the Germans are being taken in by Hitler’s regime, but now the British are falling for it too. Why can no-one see what’s staring them in the face?”

Havers nodded as he lit his cigarette, considering pulling the wire of the blasted radio. Every evening he got home he found the Captain sitting by it – listening to the announcer droning on about every update out of Germany and the rest of Europe – hushing him when he tried to say hello or talk to him about his day. In fact, it was becoming increasingly more difficult for Havers to fall into conversation with him without things digressing to the European political climate, which, was concerning and exhausting both diplomatically and personally.

“Perhaps the Hitler Youth debacle might make people see sense,” Havers suggested. “Making it a legal requirement for young boys to join a fascist after-school club to learn how to fire weapons and break up peaceful church groups can’t sit well with people.”

“You’d think that,” the Captain said, pursing his lips as he exhaled a ream of smoke, “but I bet there will be people out there that think putting children into a club like that will be a good thing. Gives them something to do, gives them a chance to make friends, makes them feel like they belong, keeps them out of trouble.”

“Any old idiot can see they’re being groomed for a future war.”

“Again, you’d think they could,” he sighed, reaching out to switch off the radio, his face becoming graver if that were at all possible. “It’s a dreadful state of affairs. Made even more shameful by the fact our government doesn’t seem to be doing anything to help those poor innocents from having their rights stripped away…” he paused to knock the ash from his cigarette, looking up at Havers with irate eyes. “I need to talk to you about something. Since they took the Rhineland, I’ve been thinking of ways to help..."

Havers nodded again and gave him a comforting yet sympathetic smile. “Aside from talking to the politicians or joining the army, what could you possibly do?”

The Captain said nothing; he just pursed his lips together and averted his gaze with a sniff and a wrinkle of his nose. In turn, Havers frowned, letting the smouldering heat of his cigarette embrace his fingertips, his heart sinking in his chest.

“Don’t tell me you’re thinking of joining the army?” he said incredulously, abandoning the cigarette as he sprung from the chair. “You can’t be serious?”

“You said it yourself, what else could I possibly do?” the Captain argued, shifting in the chair to make himself look taller. “The politicians aren’t going to listen to us…so, it makes sense to join the army. If there’s another war coming, isn’t it worth being prepared for it?”

Havers blinked back his surprise and rubbed at his temples with his index and middle fingers as if it might help him absorb the information better. “This is madness.”

“No, it’s the right course of action,” he said firmly. “Madness is what Hitler and his cronies are up to. I’ve made my choice, William.”

The silence stretched between them, and the Captain looked away again, clearing his throat, so he didn’t have to watch Havers’ face fall into quiet despondency and become sickly. So, he didn’t have to watch his shoulders slump.

“You’ve made your choice?” he repeated absently.

“Like I said,” the Captain began, dropping his cigarette end into the ashtray, “I’ve been thinking about it since they took the Rhineland.”

“And you’re only choosing to tell me about this now?” Havers checked, barely able to believe he’d kept this to himself for so long.

The Captain nodded. “I knew you’d try and talk me out of it.”

“Of course I will!” he said, throwing his hands up. “You really want to do this after knowing what happened to our fathers? After seeing how it affected our mothers?”

Finally, the Captain looked up, his usually azure gaze a cold and stormy grey as he stood his ground and swallowed the shame of not saying anything sooner. “It’s the right thing to do.”

Havers shook his head and sat on the edge of the sofa, tapping his fingers against the sagging cushion underneath him. “Is it? How do you know?” he sighed and chewed on his bottom lip. “Is this because of those stories your mother told Dottie about you? About how she compares you to your father?

“No,” he said quickly. “Don’t be absurd. It’s about the abuse of power and cruel treatment Jewish people are facing.”

“I understand that you’re distraught and concerned, you’d have to have a heart of stone and a cruel nature not to be,” Havers admitted, grinding his molars. “But…are you really prepared to go out there and kill another man? Fight those children?”

The Captain frowned, the lines in his forehead becoming ever more profound. His expression reminded Havers of Dottie. “No, but I’m prepared to go out there and die so others might have the chance to live a better life. You told me all those years ago that you would prefer to live a full half-life than a half full-life, and the very next day, you sacrificed yourself for me,” he paused to gauge Havers’ reaction. He found nothing discernible other than the quick flicker of his eyes as he was dragged into that memory. “This is my chance to do the same for someone else.”

“Well, my sacrifice didn’t exactly make a difference, did it? We still both suffered in the end,” Havers pointed out. “You’re already dead. Why can’t you just stay dead here with m-“ he clamped his mouth shut and shook his head again, taking a large breath. “Why can’t you live your death here instead of going out there and trying to die again? You have too much to lose.”

If the Captain had noticed Havers’ interruption of himself, he gave no sign of it. “Well, so do they!”

“What about your mother? How do you think she’d cope if she discovered you had died for real this time? Think of poor Dottie who loves you…she’s only just got you back, and you’ve made promises to her that you can’t possibly keep if you join the army,” Havers took another deep breath. “What about me? And the rest of the cricket team?” he added quickly. “You’re the best captain we’ve ever had…we’ve waited a long time for you.”

“And you had me,” the Captain told him, reaching for another cigarette. “My mother will understand, and I’ll write a letter to Dottie in case the worst happens. You’re a great vice-captain, and if you put your mind to it, you could be a great captain too. I feel like the tactical brilliance I’ve shown in our matches could translate well in the army; don’t you think?”

Havers let out a high-pitch noise through his nose and stood up again to pace around the sofa. “This isn’t a game!” he cried. “This is nothing like cricket, and you are not a child playing with tin soldiers any more! The men you go into battle with are real…the lives you’re leaving behind are real. You can’t treat this like a game!”

“I’m not!” the Captain said, flying to his feet too, sending the ashtray to the floor and scattering cigarette cinders across the boards and misting over the rug. “I know what I’m doing, and frankly, I expected a little more support and understanding from you.”

Shrugging his shoulders and finding himself blinking more than usual, Havers let out a bitter laugh. “Well, you clearly don’t know me as well as you thought you did. You know, I might have supported you if you had talked to me about this from the start instead of casually mentioning it when you’d already made up your mind.”

“I haven’t made this decision lightly, William.”

“Don’t I get a say?” Havers asked. “Don’t you regard me enough to let me have my say and be involved in this decision too?” He searched the Captain’s face for signs of guilt, but there was just a dull light in the back of his eyes and an impatient grimace forming on his lips. “Has the last year and a half meant nothing to you?”

“It meant everything to me!” the Captain fired back. He wanted to drop his gaze but found that he couldn’t – it was like his mind was forcing him to drink in and note every small detail of his skin, like it knew what was coming. “It meant everything…and that’s why I couldn’t tell you. If I had, then the last few months would’ve been nothing but tense arguing and upset.”

Havers barked out a laugh. “Yeah, that’s really worked, hasn’t it? You’ve certainly saved us all the arguing and upset. Thanks for that.”

“I’m sorry, but I have to go,” the Captain told him as he began to pace again. If he had access to his cricket bat, he was almost sure that Havers would go for his knees and finish them off like he joked whenever he inconvenienced him. “I’ve thought about it for so long…I’ve thought about you, Mother, and Dottie…and I still think it’s a good idea for me to enlist. I feel passionately about this – I need to do this.”

“And I feel passionately about you!” Havers exclaimed, immediately clapping his hand over his mouth when he realised just how loud he was shouting. They both froze, barely breathing, as they heard a confused mumbling from upstairs and muted shuffling – the Captain trying to mask the fear that had been instilled in him all those years ago. When they heard nothing more for over a minute, Havers dared to speak again.

“You asked me to stay once,” he said, a tone away from a whisper, “and now I’m asking you to stay. I’ll never forget those words you said to me: Don’t go. Stay. I don’t want it to end. I don’t want you to go.”

“We were different people back then. We were young and foolish, and we shouldn’t make those mistakes again now.”

“I don’t accept that,” Havers told him boldly. “It’s not a mistake for me to ask you to stay. This,” he paused to gesture between them, “has been good. This has been amazing, and honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever been happier…and I think – I hope – you’ve felt the same. Why would you want to throw that away for a life in the army?”

“Because it’s the right thing to do,” the Captain repeated, speaking as if it should be evident by now.

Havers’ eyes were stinging like he’d rubbed them with nettles, though whether it had been caused by emotion or exhaustion, he couldn’t tell. “I want you to stay because I lo-“

“Don’t say it,” the Captain said sternly, his gaze becoming beseeching. “Don’t you dare say it.”

But it was too late. The words were already falling freely from Havers’ mouth. “I love you. I love you, and I will make you stand there and accept the truth for the first time in twenty years. I know you love me too, even if you don’t want to admit it.” He was breathing hard for someone so breathless.

The Captain hung his head and turned his attention to the upturned ashtray; the glass glinting in the soft, ethereal moonlight, casting beautiful colours that reminded him of a chandelier in a smoke-filled bar. When he had allowed the words to wrap around his throat and aorta, when the urge to say the same had died on the tip of his tongue, all he said was, “are you quite finished?”

Havers became awfully quiet, and still, the full weight of everything said, and not said, falling on top of him – too heavy for him to carry and fight. “Yes,” he said. “Are you?”

Everything felt deathly quiet. They heard the shuffling upstairs again, the whistle of the wind through the crack in the window, and the musical tinkle of Ginny’s bell collar as she got up from her nap. Their heavy breathing haggardly out of sync and ugly filled the rest of the room; neither one prepared to look the other in the eye again.

“Yes, I’m afraid so.”


	10. The Captain

He was straightening his tie in the walnut cheval mirror when the rap at his office door came. The knot, a simple Windsor, was pressing against his collar, putting force on his windpipe – somehow drowning him in too much air and too little simultaneously.

As The Captain focused on positioning it just right, moving it a little to the left to line it up with the pointed edges of his collar, so it was even and centred, he could spot the file on his desk through the glass, the pages rustling in the breeze seeping through the cracked open window. But the pages weren’t going anywhere, he’d made sure of it, putting his desktop globe on the corner of the file.

The room was shrouded in a slightly-dingy, floral pink and green wallpaper that could be seen in all its migraine-inducing glory at every turn – it didn’t matter where he looked in the mirror or around him, he couldn’t get away from it. It haunted him at every turn and reminded him how old this house really was, and, as he frowned at himself as he pushed the tie too far left, he wondered what kind of lady had picked this paper.

Perhaps she had been a new wife, excited to make her mark on her new home. Maybe she had been a dowager, looking to keep herself busy and make a change. A mother picking feminine décor for her daughter. A little sister – the youngest daughter – choosing something for herself for a change. A stepmother choosing a wallpaper she knew her step-child would hate, another way for her to assert her dominance and remind the world she was here. This was her domain now.

He avoided looking at his face too closely. The crow’s feet were more apparent, the worry lines a stain on his features, and the silver at his temples was beginning to crawl over his crown – the white in stark contrast to the dark moustache decorating his top lip.  
The knock burst into his thoughts and dragged him out of his inane mind.

“The Lieutenant has arrived, Sir,” came the voice on the other side. “Shall I send him up?”

The Captain froze, staring at his wide eyes in the reflection. Stuck like Medusa gazing upon herself in a lake. Trapped like a Gorgon in a snare of her own making. He smacked his mouth and lips together, trying to gather enough saliva to allow him to speak, he had intended to say ‘yes, please, Stephens,’ but what came out instead was, “does he know it’s me?”

“I’m sorry, Sir?” came the confused voice. The floorboards creaked as Stephens shifted his weight, unsure whether to walk in or not.

Frowning at himself, The Captain tore himself from the mirror and slipped behind his desk. “Nothing,” he said, smoothing his hands over the file. “You can show him up.”

The footsteps petered into silence as Stephens left again, leaving The Captain with only a few precious moments in which to prepare himself. He allowed his careful fingers to open the file, trace the contours of his name and the address he knew so well. Would he be pleased to see him? Would he fall into that melting smile and say he missed him – he had been wrong to push back about this. Would he still be full of fury? Would he come marching straight in and continue the argument as if they, or the world, hadn’t changed in the last four years. Or worst of all, would he feel absolutely nothing at all? Would he stand there, rigid, and disinterested, showing no emotion – barely recognising him. Refusing to acknowledge he knew him. Peter denying Jesus. Or maybe Jesus coming back to haunt Judas – after all, hadn’t he betrayed him with a kiss too?

Despite the wind, the winter sun streamed through the window, and this is what he put the sweat prickling his back down to. Was the sunshine a good omen, promising warmth, and prosperity? Or was it a taunt designed to highlight their – his – mistakes? Too many questions – not enough time to answer them.

Two sets of feet on the creaky floorboard and then a quick and sure knock. “Lieutenant Havers for you, Sir,” Stephens announced.

The Captain shut the file again as he called for him to enter, clearing his throat as the door was pushed open. Somehow, he managed to get to his feet as Havers trod lightly across the room in his pristine brown shoes. He wore his trench coat as though it were a burden and had his duffel bag slung over his slim shoulders – the leather strap tucked neatly under his lapel. As regulations dictated, his hair was a little shorter, and it had been tamed with some styling product he wasn’t used to using—no facial hair: nothing to hide behind.

In turn, Havers regarded The Captain closely too, keenly aware of Stephens closing the door behind him. His eyes didn’t stray from his face, but they didn’t seem to be looking at him, but rather, through him. And they were both reminded of those final few days and hours where they couldn’t look at each other – and if they had to pretend they were, they focused on the wall behind them instead.

He knew he should speak first, but the words wouldn’t form on The Captain’s tongue. When he wanted to make a joke, tell him off for his open collar like he had done so many times before, he realised that his collar was already as starched, stiff, and oppressive as his own. The charming rough-around-the-edges man he had known was gone – slipped through his fingers once more, and all he could do was smile falsely and warmly, without giving away that his heart was cracking and falling away from his ribs.

“Welcome to Button House, Lieutenant, at ease,” he said finally, his mouth continually quirking between a smile and an astute formal line. “Please do take a seat.”

Havers lifted his chin slightly, the defiant action of a boy, and kept his hands held firmly behind his back. “Thank you, Sir, but I’d rather stand.”

The Captain pressed his lips together and cleared his throat, taking a deep breath through his nose. “Of course…” he said. “I’ve scheduled a briefing with you for fifteen-hundred hours…I hope you find your time here comfortable and prosperous…” he stopped, tapping his fingertips against the desk. Everything he wanted to say and everything he had to say had fallen out of his head. He had clearly stopped for longer than he should because suddenly Havers was speaking.

“Is that everything, Sir?”

Taken aback by the question, The Captain smoothed his hand over his chest, the metallic buttons blocking the smooth action by trapping his fingers under the small gap between the button back and the heavy material. He cleared his throat again and felt his tie once again, putting its fat fingers around the soft folds of his neck and squeezed.

“No,” he said, without knowing what to say next. “No…I..uh…We are…” he closed his mouth and dropped his gaze to his desk, a hot flush flooding his face.

“Permission to speak plainly, Sir?” Havers asked, making The Captain snap his head up with a wide gaze and his mouth set into a startled o.

“Granted, Lieutenant,” he answered, both relieved and terrified at the thought of them dropping their military personas, no matter how briefly.

Havers rolled his shoulders and looked at The Captain, properly this time, with an intense heat that faded into an apathetic shake of the head. “Why is it always you?”

“I’m sorry?” The Captain asked, blinking rapidly, and breaking into a bemused smile.

“It’s always you,” Havers repeated, tilting his head a fraction. “As children, for one afternoon as young men, for a year and a half as…,” he paused, looking to find the right word. “As…sportsmen, and now…here we are again. How do you always end up being my captain?”

It hadn’t been the question The Captain was expecting. He took another deep breath through his nose and met Havers’ gaze, pursing his lips as he considered it. All he could do was shrug and give a disbelieving titter, but as his answer formed, he became soft around the edges and sincere.

“Because there’s no-one else I’d rather have as my right-hand man.”

Havers raised his eyebrows and wrung his hands together behind his back, dropping his face towards the floor. He bit back a curt remark about that not being true otherwise he would’ve stayed, and instead made a pondering hum. “I see.”

“Anyway,” he said, tugging on the hem of his jacket, painting on his authoritative demeanour. “If you’d like to follow me, I’ll show you to your room and introduce you to the rest of the squad.” He was already out from the desk and making for the door when Havers stiffened, rooted to the spot.

“If it’s all the same to you, Sir, I’d prefer it if the Second Lieutenant showed me to my room,” he said, his voice sounding oddly mechanical as he stared through The Captain once more.

“Oh,” The Captain answered, shoulders slumping as he let his smile flicker like a candle flame too close to the end of the wick. “If you wish. Stephens will take great care of you, I’m sure.” He returned to the desk, falling into his chair with a groan, and reached for the pipe and tobacco he kept in the drawer. He didn’t mind that Havers was watching him as he packed the briar bowl with the fine tobacco shreds with his fingers.

“When did you start smoking a pipe?” Havers blurted.

The Captain smiled gently and lit a match, then the pipe, his spine clicking as he leaned back in his chair. “Shortly after I joined the army. It was a good way to relax and take some time for myself or socialise with the other men.”

“And the moustache?”

He threw his hand to his lip as if he’d forgotten he’d grown the moustache at all. “Oh, yes…” he stopped short of asking Havers if he liked it. “I felt like having a change.”

“You’ve changed a lot,” Havers told him. “And I don’t just mean the pipe and moustache.”

Grinning bitter-sweetly, he sighed. “You haven’t. You’re still the same as ever.”

“I’m not,” he argued weakly, “you just don’t want to see it.”

The Captain nodded, glancing again at Havers’ collar, inhaling on the pipe. He took it from between his lips and pointed it at Havers. “You’re more cynical than you used to be.”

It was Havers’ turn to clear his throat then. “Yes, well,” he said, squeezing his hands so his joints turned white, “given the circumstances, that could be forgiven.”

“Yes, it could,” The Captain relented, knowing by the dull look in his eyes and the twist at the corners of his mouth that he wasn’t talking about the war. “Anyway, as I was saying, Stephens will show you to your room, and you will meet me back here at fifteen-hundred hours. You’re free to go, Lieutenant.”

Havers said a stiff thank you and left, leaving The Captain with the overwhelming urge to smack his head into the desk and groan into the wood. Instead, he just stared out of the window with a furrowed brow and a heavy heart, listening to the fading voices of Stephens and Havers as they trudged down the corridor.

In the interim hours, The Captain did anything and everything he could to keep himself busy, but he was working absently, and he couldn’t tell you what exactly what he’d done if you’d asked him. The work and the minutes just slipped into one messy blip of time – he blinked, and it was over. He was so wrapped up in his own racing, tangled thoughts that he didn’t hear Havers knock. Nor did he hear him walk in anyway without an answer. He was gazing out the window again – admiring the view of the lush greenery spreading out before him and grimacing at the gravel ground below.

“Is everything alright, Sir?”

"Yes, I was just thinking." The Captain blinked hard but didn’t face Havers. “When I was first posted here, I spent a long time trying to work out why the name ‘Button House’ felt familiar. I could never quite put my finger on it no matter how much I tried,” he turned away from the window, scooping up Havers’ military record from the tabletop, “but then this landed on my desk, and suddenly I remembered.”

“Remembered what, Sir?”

Without his trench coat, The Captain could see just how neat Havers’ uniform was, and, both to his delight and disappointment, it was immaculate. There was not a crease in his trousers or jacket, not a button hanging loosely by its thread, his shoes were clean and polished – everything as regulation dictated, and it was bizarre to see. Where was that roguish man from his youth? Had he slowly killed him over the years or had the military rules twisted its knife in the last of his wayward glimmer?

“I was only a boy at the time,” The Captain continued, deftly placing the paper down in front of him again. “It was my birthday, and my father let me read the newspaper to him. I only got to read one story and Mother didn’t let me finish it. A woman died here,” he said with a melancholic exhale, turning back to the view outside, tapping the glass with his swagger stick, which was usually tucked firmly under his arm. “She fell from this very window.”

“And I reminded you of that?” Havers asked, raising a brow. “Is that because you’d quite like to see me fall from a window?” he added dryly, smirking when The Captain snapped his head towards him with a frown.

“Of course not,” he said, straightening his jacket and trying to gauge whether Havers was teasing him or being deliberately harsh. He carried on with his speech when Havers didn’t clarify. “There’s something about you that constantly makes me think about the past.”

Havers nodded, taking a breath as he came forward to sit on the other side of the desk, crossing his leg over his knee. “Yes, that was part of the problem, I think,” he said, his stare boring into The Captain as he sunk into his chair too. “You kept thinking about the past. God forbid if you ever allowed yourself to live in the moment or think of the future.”

The Captain swallowed his pride and gave him a shaky smile, running his hands along the edge of the desk. He dropped his eyes to the tabletop. “Yes, you’re right. I should’ve let myself be happy.”

“Do you believe in ghosts, Sir?”

“No,” he said quickly, looking up again and organising papers that were already neat. “I don’t believe in anything I can’t see with my own eyes or rationally explain.”

Havers tilted his head as if he were challenging him to a duel. Asking for his best shot. “Then why do you always look so haunted? I’ve never met someone who survived so much, including his own death, who was given this many chances to start fresh. You’re free to do so much, and yet you bind yourself by ghosts that don’t exist.”

“I’m not haunted by ghosts,” The Captain said, fiddling with his tie and forcing himself to maintain eye-contact. As always, Havers’ eyes were warm no matter how much he tried to make them cold. They were flecked with gold, and looking at them was a private homecoming. “I’m haunted by the things I haven’t done and the things I should have said.”

At this, Havers felt his heart catch in his throat, and he let his face bloom into a fragile but genuine smile. “When I discovered you were going to be my captain, I almost requested a transfer.”

“Why did you change your mind?” The Captain chewed on the inside of his cheek, the metallic tang of iron seeping over his tongue as he rearranged stationery in the desk tidy.

“Because I knew I would regret it if it turned out to be my last opportunity to see you again,” he admitted with a careless shrug of one shoulder. “I don’t like it when things are unfinished.”

The Captain cleared his throat and laced his fingers on the pages, lifting his chin to stop his tie from strangling him again. He really ought to loosen it when no-one was looking. “I understand,” he said. “I’ve had a long time to think about how I left things…how I handled things. I should’ve told you about my plans from the beginning…it was unfair of me to exclude you out of the decision making when we had begun to build a life. I’m sorry.”

“It was unfair,” Havers agreed, brushing invisible dust from his knee. “But I forgive you. In truth, I forgave you a long time ago…the anger doesn’t do anyone any good.”

“I suppose not,” The Captain said with a lamenting breath. “But the thing I’m sorriest for…” he paused, a nervous fluttering in his stomach and his heart making him feel like a child. “Well, frankly, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that I loved you too.” His voice was low and matter of fact. “Because I did. _I do_.”

Havers exhaled from his nose, his cheeks glowing crimson as he laughed. “Wow…it’s taken you over twenty years to say something like that to me. You really have changed, haven’t you?”

“There’s a war on, Havers,” The Captain said, as if that wasn’t already clear, “I don’t know much time I have left to say it.”

“Is that what this is? The briefing was just a cover so you could finally tell me how you actually feel?”

The Captain shook his head and picked up his notepad and files, giving them a little shake with unsteady hands. “No, no, I do actually have to give you a briefing,” he said, smiling crookedly as he put the pages down, “but…I thought I should get everything out in the open as early as possible. As I’ve learned at our expense, we work better as a team when we’re honest with each other.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Havers said. “I’d like to be able to trust my commanding officer.”

“I’ll do everything I can to prove that your trust and previous affections have been well invested,” he promised, opening his notepad, and plucking his favourite Waterman pen from the pen pot. “But we must press on, Lieutenant. Unfortunately, the Nazis don’t stop for twenty-year-old love declarations and neither must we.”

Havers sat forward in his chair, every inch the dutiful and eager Lieutenant, shoulders back, spine straight and rigid. But, unlike a typical man of his rank in the presence of his captain, he smiled as he listened to the rules that must be followed in the house and to the bare bones of tactical plans still in their infancy, his face bathed in the warm amber glow of the sinking winter sun bursting through the window.


	11. The Captain: II

It took a few days but, eventually, it was if Havers and The Captain had never parted those few years earlier. Naturally, there were a few differences – they were no longer permitted the opportunity to share a room, and any form of physical affection was entirely out of the question. Instead, they felt the care radiating when they nodded a greeting as they passed each other in the corridor and understood the hidden meaning when they said “that’s a brilliant idea,” or “you’re a genius,” leaving them with a gentle beam and a delicate glow in their chests.

They went jogging together most mornings – the fact that the rest of the squad followed behind him in their bleary-eyed state as the arctic dawn air whipped their faces was a secondary thing. It still gave The Captain a thrill to know he had a remained a faster runner than Havers, and it still gave Havers a thrill to watch The Captain be so pleased about it. Occasionally, when the sun allowed it, they spent time walking around the garden, tending to the allotment – full of crops grown to help the war effort, talking as if they still lived in that small flat hundreds of miles away.

It was Havers that noticed the squad’s bored demeanour too in meetings – The Captain, as firm yet fair as he was as a cricket captain, ruled Button House with a current of anxiety flowing through his veins. He still listened to the radio most nights, and he stayed up late trying to organise his mission – it didn’t have a name and everything about the blank paper scared him. The lack of sleep made him grumpy, and the rationed coffee made him worse still. Havers often found him in the library in the wee hours of the morning, browsing dusty books and looking for inspiration as he crossed out another idea on his crumpled page.

“Perhaps, Sir,” Havers said to him one morning as the squad filed out of the large living room, “it would be a good idea to try and boost the morale of the team.”

“And how do you propose we do that?” he asked, his attention wavering as he watched the final cadet disappear – his brain already racing on to the next thing.

Havers was smiling slyly, holding his hands behind his back, and rocking on the balls of his feet. “Cricket,” he said, his face breaking into a toothy grin that caught The Captain’s attention. He spoke before The Captain could interrupt. “It’s a good way for the cadets to work together whilst letting off some steam, and frankly, Sir, I think you could benefit from a taste of home.”

“Huh…” The Captain said, smiling from the corner of his mouth. “Good idea, Lieutenant. I think you might be right.”

“There’s certainly enough garden space,” Havers said, warming to his idea more and more as he looked out of the window at the garden, “and I think the squad might appreciate a change of pace from jogging.”

“You’re only saying that because you’re jealous you can’t do a lap in under two minutes,” The Captain teased. “But yes, okay, let’s ask the cadets and put together a Button House eleven.”

“I’ll get to it,” Havers promised, taking his leave as The Captain gave him a dismissive nod, but before he knew it, he was being called back again.

“Lieutenant,” he said, the hint of a spark igniting his voice, bringing forth a warmth that enveloped them both. “Perhaps this time you ought to be captain. It’s about time you got a fair shot.”

Havers looked at him curiously and then dropped his gaze to his feet as he tried to hide how wide his smile was becoming. “I’m honoured, Sir. I never thought I’d see the day you let me play captain.”

“Things change, Havers, we should know that better than anyone.” The Captain sniffed and wrinkled his nose, the whiskery bristles of his moustache tickling his nostrils. “Besides, it was your idea, and I’m much too busy.”

“Very good, Sir,” Havers said, turning on his heel.

* * *

Everything kept him awake.

The moon’s ethereal luminosity was too harsh a spot on the velvet dark of the night, the broken, grunting snore of the man in the next room, and the eerie whistle of wind travelling up the drainpipe. The bed was too cold, the blankets were too scratchy. Lying in the quiet with the moonbeams brightening the room, he forced himself to close his eyes, only for them to snap open again when he could’ve sworn he’d heard a distant, short, sharp scream. Barely breathing, he lay there with his head barely supported by the thin pillow, listening. Every sound was too loud, the imagined and the real, every light was too bright, every thought was too much to comprehend at – he checked his watch – three in the morning on the dot.

Giving up on the idea of getting a good night’s sleep, The Captain hauled himself out of bed, the chill sending goosebumps over his skin. He dressed in his uniform quickly so he could feel some semblance of warmth and combed his hair – doing it all in the dark, as carefully and quietly as he was able. When he remembered that he’d need to change again in a few hours for the morning jog, he rolled his eyes at himself but tightened his tie anyway.

He exited his room and closed the door gently behind him, walking as if he were trying to float down the hallway as he went to his office. Here, far away enough from the next cadet’s room, he turned on the light, immediately recoiling at the cruel brightness that seemed to burn him. After quickly checking his uniform in the mirror and adjusting his Sam Browne belt, so his posture was more rigid, he took to his desk.

Almost as quickly as he had decided to sit down, he stood back up again, grumbling to himself as the light flickered – the bulb letting out a strenuous hum as the filament danced under whatever pressure it was under. With his eyebrows furrowed, he lurched towards the switch, flicking it on and off himself in a vain attempt to stabilise it.

“Whoever wired this house did a bloody shoddy job,” he said to himself, shaking his head. He had only replaced the bulb again two weeks ago, and now he stared at it with suspicion, almost challenging it to blink again.

There was nothing, and with a satisfied sigh, he returned to his desk. He took his pen from the desk tidy and opened his leather-bound notebook – a gift from his mother and Dottie when he sent them a letter informing them of his enrolment into the army. It was filled with pages of his thoughts as he tried to make them make sense, thinking they would become easier to decode if they were laid bare on the white page. Half-diary, half-military record, the notebook had become a firm companion to The Captain over the last few years, but since Havers had arrived, the book had been left to gather dust.

He began reading through his abandoned operation ideas and sneered at himself, wondering why he ever left The Gunners and why he’d been asked to come up with the plans for a tactical mission. Chewing on his bottom lip, he lowered the nib of his pen to brainstorm but, no sooner had a drip of ink splashed on to the paper, the light buzzed and flickered once more. The Captain groaned and slammed the book shut, throwing the pen back into its home before standing roughly from his chair and stomping towards the switch again. This time, he flicked it off and left the room – clearly, he was going to be as comfortable in his office as he was in his bedroom.

As he turned out of the office intending to head to the library, he was struck by the acrid scent of burning – a smell so strong that it made his nostrils twitch and mouth twist. He coughed and batted away the smell, scrunching his nose as he tried to follow the scent, wondering if Webber had accidentally dropped a lit match on his sheets again. He paced towards the suspected culprit but soon discovered that the scent had vanished and there was silence on the other side of the door. There wasn’t a single footstep, no hushed barrage of swearing as he tried to fan the flames, and there was no light seeping through the cracks in the door either. If The Captain opened it, he was sure he’d find Webber was tucked up in bed, dribbling on to the mattress with a nasal wheeze.

Tired of the house and its quirks for one night…or morning…or liminal space in-between, The Captain returned to his bedroom to don his trench coat, gather his pipe and tobacco, and headed for the lake.

* * *

The water was still and calm with the reflection of the silver moonbeams ebbing and flowing on the rippling surface. Tall, waving reeds caressed the thin strip of mud between the water and foreshore – a natural curtain that hung upside down and hid the edge of the water from view.

A few feet away from the water stood a weeping willow, its low branches lowering the leaves to feather-touch the grass below. Ever since he was a child, The Captain always found himself wondering the same thing when he saw a tree like this – he’d thought it when he arrived at Button House, he’d pondered it on those sunny afternoons on the boat, and asked his mother once when they walked by one in the park. Why does the weeping willow weep? What made it so sad?

Elizabeth, holding his hand as they walked, looked up at the tree with a smile and scrunched up her nose. “Once upon a time, a fair and enchanting Princess fell in love with a dashing rogue. He came to her town on a rowing boat he stole from his father and showed her a life she couldn’t experience on land. When her father, the King, discovered that she had fallen in love and was planning to run away with the rogue, he banished him from the island and put a spell on him so he could never return.”

With a sceptical pout, the little boy swung their entwined hands together as he turned to stare at the long leaves. “But what does that have to do with the tree?”

“Well, if you had let me finish,” she said pointedly, stopping to playfully pinch his nose, “I would’ve told you.” When he looked forlorn at the gentle admonishment, she ruffled his hair and kissed his crown. “You see, the Princess, unable to accept that the rogue could never return to her, waited by the water, expecting him to come back. She waited, rooted to the spot, for hours. But hours turned to days, which turned to weeks, which turned to months, which turned to years – but she never gave up hope that they would be reunited. Though she remained hopeful, she wept for the time that was lost, and her tears watered the grass around her. Nature, seeing how damaged her heart was, used her tears to grow strong, encasing her in the bark to protect what was left of her heart and allowing her to live forever waiting for her rogue.”

The Captain took a large gulp of the frigid air and lowered himself into the grass, knees and spine cracking as he pressed against the damp bark. The leaves of the willow shrouded him in his own little world, and he squinted in the dark as he filled the bowl of his pipe with the herbal tobacco.

A gentle gurgling blip on the water alerted him to a kingfisher that was as restless in the night as he, plunging its beak into the depths. With the moon on its back, it looked like a shining bird that might live in his mother’s story. He couldn’t say how long he watched the almost-invisible figure of the kingfisher hover over the water, puffing on his pipe and allowing his mind to clear. Everything here felt timeless.

“I thought I might find you here,” said a gentle voice from behind the tree.  
The Captain looked up at Havers, smiling, hoping that he couldn’t see the sparkle in his eyes through the dim light. “You did?”

“I heard you walking around,” he said. “You weren’t in your office or the library, so this seemed like the next best place to look for you.”

“I see. What are you doing up anyway, Lieutenant?”

“I could ask the same of you,” Havers pointed out, laying his trench coat on the grass so he could sit beside The Captain.

“Couldn’t sleep,” The Captain answered simply. “That house is always either too loud or too quiet.”

Havers nodded, looking up at the moon with the smile The Captain loved – the one that made his cheeks dimple. “Don’t laugh…but, I was wondering if Ginny likes living with Mrs Lamb upstairs, and if she misses me. Will she recognise me if I come home?”

“She will…and I’m sure she’s happy with Mrs Lamb too,” The Captain decided. “Not as happy as she is when she’s with you, but she’s comfortable. She’ll love it when you come home.”

“I hope you’re right,” he answered with a sigh, admiring the way the elongated leaves of the willow rustled in the breeze.

The Captain exhaled a billow of smoke, turning his face towards Havers’ profile – as pretty as a figure on a coin – and resisted the urge to put his arm around his shoulder. “What made you change your mind in the end? About the army?” he clarified pointlessly.

After a small stretch of quiet where they both looked in the direction of the horizon, Havers spoke. “It’s hard to say – there were a few reasons. I realised that you were right; it was the right thing to do. We should’ve been trying to help the Jewish people and anyone else Hitler’s been trying to wipe out the whole time. But that’s not the romantic answer.”

“There’s a romantic answer?”

“There always is when you’re involved,” Havers said with a small, accepting shrug. “I missed you, and even if there was no chance of us seeing each other again, I thought I might feel closer to you. Knowing we’re going through the same thing.”

The Captain’s pipe went out, and he lit it again with a match, looking at Havers through the umber flame – his heart twisting as he noticed the fading of Havers’ laughter lines. “That is the romantic answer,” he agreed, blowing out the match, encasing them in darkness yet again. “I missed you too.”

In the pleasurable few moments of silence that followed, they shuffled to get comfortable again as Havers’ foot fell asleep and The Captain’s bum went numb in the chill. When their knees bumped together, they didn’t move away; they let their kneecaps sit firm and steady against one another’s.

“Speaking of romance,” The Captain said, shattering the quiet, “I received a letter from Dottie yesterday. It seems that she’s getting married.”

Havers reeled back, letting out a disbelieving yet charming chuckle. “Is that so?”

“Mhm,” The Captain hummed, brushing his moustache with his finger. “To a baker’s apprentice from the neighbouring town. Arthur. She says she’s madly in love with him and he treats her with the utmost respect and tenderness.”

“It seems like she’s happy,” Havers said. “You and the rest of the family must be pleased she's found love in a time like this.”

The Captain wrinkled his nose as he inhaled on his pipe. “Don’t you think she’s a little young to be getting married? She’s only seventeen…she’s got her whole life ahead of her.”

“If she’s happy and this is the life she wants, I don’t see what’s so wrong with it,” Havers admitted. “I know you’re trying to be the protective, caring brother but she’s got a good head on her shoulders. She knows what she’s doing.” He paused to drag his teeth across his bottom lip. “Besides, are you saying you wouldn’t have gotten married young if you had the option?”

The air, which had been so bitter under the direct direction of the light wind, now suddenly seemed to be a stifling and oppressive thing. More oppressive than their stiff collars. More oppressive than military rules. More oppressive than the world they lived in now. Havers glanced down at the grass, not quite wishing he could take the words back, but not quite glad he had said them either. Beside him, The Captain straightened his back and pulled down his shoulders, his face cast in beautiful yet otherworldly light as the moon dropped a little lower in the sky.

“Yes, well,” he said, clearing his throat. “I suppose it _is_ a good thing Dottie’s so sure about this man and has the opportunity to marry him.”

Havers nodded, pulling grass from the ground and rolling it between his fingers as he used to as a child in the field behind his house. “I would’ve asked, you know,” he said, dropping the grass again – his fingers sticky with the liquid seeping from the damaged blade. “That day on the boat…you looked so beautiful bathed in gold, so happy and at home. So free. If we were different…if we were allowed…I would’ve asked.”

The Captain took a shaky breath, suddenly aware of how much he had lost with Havers other than time. “I would’ve said yes, I imagine.”

“Good to know,” Havers said slowly through a yawn, smiling straight ahead at the invisible horizon. “Do you miss sailing?”

“Sometimes. I do now,” he admitted. “The water helped me to think…and I could do with that peace.”

“Is something troubling you?”

Taking another drag on his pipe, The Captain pressed his knee against Havers’ a touch firmer. “Working in Intelligence wasn’t what I was expecting.”

“Oh, really?”

“It’s…street's apart from what I thought,” he clarified, using the pipe to punctuate his point. “Coming up with sly plans to destroy an enemy was always more Walter’s speed than mine.”

Havers let his mouth turn up at the corners and then laughed, snatching the pipe from The Captain’s hand, puffing on it with a youthful grin until he coughed, his complexion turning green. “I hate to admit it but killing you on that boat was a stroke of genius.”

“I suppose it was,” The Captain agreed, his lips curling into an amused grin. “I’ll never know how he managed to sink the boat without getting himself into trouble, though.” He peeled the pipe away from Havers’ fingers, his blue-tinged fingertips lingering longer on Havers’ skin than they needed to.

“Perhaps he smashed a hole into the bow and just let it fill? However he did it, it doesn’t matter. You’re dead, and they’re never finding your body. Aside from the obvious, the ocean’s a big place. It’ll be almost impossible.”

The Captain frowned, stroking his thumb over his lip. “Yes,” he said hoarsely, “it would, wouldn’t it? It would be almost impossible,” he said, his voice increasing in volume and eyes widening. As quick as a flash, he scrambled to his feet, his fingernails picking up dirt as he pushed himself up off the ground, the pipe hanging from his mouth.

He began racing up the grass with his coat flicking behind him, gabbling something about boats that Havers couldn’t hear as he picked up his jacket and gave chase.

“What’s going on?” he huffed, pumping his legs as hard as he could to try and catch up with him. “Good Lord, man, slow down!”

But The Captain just kept running – his heart light in his chest with the exhilaration of it. He didn’t even slow down when he pulled open the heavy doors of Button House. Nor did he try to quieten his footsteps as he marched upstairs and barrelled into his office, practically falling over his desk as he searched around the top of it for his notebook and pen. He discarded the pipe on the floor with a dull clatter.

Havers entered a few seconds later, flicking on the light, which made the older man look up with an interested hum.

“What on earth is going on?” he asked through ragged breaths, standing back from the desk with his coat bunched in his arms.

“He sank the boat and stopped me,” The Captain said, his eyes trained on the paper as his hand sprawled furiously. “He stopped everything about me, in that life, by sinking the boat.”

Furrowing his brows, Havers dropped his coat over the back of the chair and took a timid step closer. “I’m sorry, Sir? I’m afraid I still don’t understand.”

“Walter sank the boat and, more or less, stopped my plans at home,” The Captain said again, turning his notebook so Havers could see his crudely drawn preliminary sketch and looped words that looked more like scribbles. “There’s a man in another Intelligence squad who came up with the idea for these limpet mines,” he continued, his breath slowly becoming level again. “They’ve got these magnets on them, you see, so they can be attached to the hull of a ship. Brilliant little invention really,” he gabbled before Havers could interrupt. “If we send frogmen overseas to attach the limpet mines to the enemy ships – supply ships or battleships or whatever - they can set them off on a fuse.”

Havers nodded, peering closely at the notes and wondering why The Captain wasn’t a codebreaker. “Sinking the ships before they can get to Allied territories and destroying their resources.”

“Exactly!” The Captain said with a relieved grin – the dam blocking his thoughts finally torn down. “Sink the ships and kill the plans.”

“It’s an excellent idea, Sir,” Havers told him openly, astutely tapping his chin. “I think you might be on to something.”

The Captain sank into his chair, his legs bouncing with restless energy – glad that the morning jog was only two hours away. “Will you work on the operation with me? I trust you more than anyone else I know, Lieutenant, and I value your input.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Havers said, pressing his lips into a bashful smile. “I’d love to help as much as I can.” When The Captain gestured for him to sit, he did so, smoothing his jacket and tie with the flat palm of his hand as he laced himself back into his military persona. “We ought to name this operation.”

“Oh yes,” The Captain agreed, tapping his pen against his nose as he found his eyes wandering to Havers as they so often did. Though not warm in the house, it still held more comfort than the air outside, leaving them both with glowing cherry cheeks and tingling hands. Havers’ lips moved silently as he read through the notes again, those first draft details, but he stopped when he caught The Captain staring, laughing nervously for no reason whatsoever. The sound was as clear and pretty as the ring of a bell, and suddenly, inspiration struck him once more. He pulled the notebook close and scribbled the name, underlining it with two quick and uneven strokes before pushing it back to Havers.

_Operation William._

Havers had to bite his lip to stop himself from laughing at the name and at The Captain’s vulnerable sincerity. “You’re a sentimental old fool, aren’t you?”

“It’s incredibly fitting,” The Captain argued, wiggling his nose with a defiant sniff. “It’s a plan to disrupt and turn people upside down, and you’ve been doing that to me for most of my life. In the best way possible, of course,” he added when Havers quirked his eyebrow and opened his mouth to contradict.

For a brief twinkling second, they held one another’s gazes, smiling softly and enjoying the present moment. It was easy to dwell on the times that had come before and the long gaps between them, wondering what might have happened in those empty blips if things had been different, but enjoying this time as it was with no thoughts about what was past or what was yet to come, that was far more challenging. But they made the most of it around that cluttered yet neatly laid desk, their heads bent together as they worked, and occasionally, laughed, doing so until the sun rose, casting the world in a hazy pink radiance that bounced off the cheval mirror and painted them in copper.


	12. The Captain: III

The first six months of nineteen-forty happened as straight-forwardly as it could in a time of uncertainty and conflict. Every day for the squad of Button House went a little something like the one the day before: the morning jog at dawn, the disappointing serving of porridge at seven, the briefing with The Captain at seven-thirty. At eight, the men and women went about their usual duties, giving The Captain and Lieutenant Havers plenty of time to hunker down in the office and work on Operation William. At one o’clock, they had their bland lunches – which would occasionally be given an extra lift with vegetables from the allotment. Duties continued until five, a simplified game of cricket was played at six by those who wished the play, those who didn't went for walks by the lake, read in the library, or wrote letters back home. Supper was served at seven, and it was lights out at ten.

In April, the boffins from another faction sent over a limpet mine so they could work out the details of covertly transporting a variety of them, and how best they could be strapped to the frogmen. It came in a robust metal box with charcoal colouring and was kept locked in the bottom drawer of The Captain’s desk – no fuse to avoid the chance of accidentally setting it off. Even so, the idea an unexploded bomb was sitting in the House, almost everyone unaware of its presence, was frightening yet exhilarating. A secret that could blow up and destroy everything with the smallest wrong move. Luckily, both The Captain and Havers had plenty of practice concealing sensitive intel.

On the fifteenth of May, on a sunny afternoon, Dottie married the sweet and kindly Arthur Freeman in a simple ceremony. She wore the silk wedding dress her mother had married her father in, altered by Elizabeth who had sewn in a tulle underskirt to give it a more modern silhouette. She had threaded freesias, sweet peas, and lilacs through the top of the veil, creating a crown of flowers for her simply styled, loose hair.

Shortly after the wedding, Dottie sent a letter to The Captain, enclosing a photograph from the day which he kept on the pinboard behind his desk. The photo was the first glimpse The Captain got at his brother-in-law. Judging by his image, he was only marginally older than Dottie, which was comforting for him to know. His hair was parted in the middle and slicked at the sides. He was squinting behind his round wire glasses, and on the lapel of his morning suit, he wore a small bundle of flowers that matched his wife’s veil. His arm was linked with Dottie’s, and they were both smiling out of the picture – a beautiful tableau of innocence and hope that made The Captain smile whenever he took a moment to look at it.

“I wish I could’ve been there,” The Captain had said to Havers as he pinned it to the wall. “Could you imagine the look on Walter’s face if I had shown up somehow?”

“It would certainly be a picture,” Havers agreed, twisting the pen around his fingers as he stared at their blueprints with a heavy brow. He had a dimple in his chin and creases around his mouth, traits that aged him by several years.

The Captain fell back into his chair, satisfied with the photograph’s placement, only to be met with Havers’ distracted grimace. This sight had become all too familiar over the recent weeks. It had started when Havers had sent a letter a month ago, and it had become endemic when, against their better judgement at two-thirty in the morning a fortnight before, they found themselves sharing a tender kiss under the long leaves of the weeping willow. Sinking against one another in the kind embrace of darkness, they allowed themselves to trace the details of their cheeks with their fingertips with only the hush of branches in the early summer wind and the whisper of the lake.

They hadn’t spoken about it since that night but ever since it, Havers had seemed more subdued, and The Captain put it down to anxiety about being found out. After all, that had crossed his mind too.

“Is everything alright, Lieutenant?” The Captain asked with a kind but guilty smile. “I know I keep asking, but as your commanding officer, I do have a duty of care.”

Havers looked up with wide eyes, the dark brown of them sparkling as he pulled on a smile that didn’t quite fit him. “I know, Sir, but I can assure you everything’s fine.

“As long as you know you can trust me,” The Captain said with a firm nod. He cleared his throat and adjusted his tie despite it being perfectly aligned with his collar. “Because if you’re worried about the lake then I-“

“No, no,” Havers interrupted quickly. “It’s fine. We don’t need to talk about it…I think it might be better if we keep our heads down.”

The Captain gave him an understanding smile. “Jolly good. Of course,…nothing happened.”

“Precisely,” he said, his eyes unable to settle on The Captain’s face for longer than a second. “Anyway, give Dottie my heartfelt congratulations, won’t you?”

* * *

June was as dry and bright as May had been with plenty of warm days and muggy nights. The heat baked the windows and turned the floorboards into what felt like hot coals. With everyone donned in their heavy woollen uniforms and sweltering, plus the little change in their routine for over half a year, the cadets were becoming restless.

The Captain lay in his bed with the window wide open, listening to Webber laughing with one of the young ladies – Ingrid Simmons – he thought, judging by the distinctive snort that followed a muffled joke.

Further down the corridor, another group of cadets, also flouting the lights-out-at-ten rule could be heard cheering as they played a game of cards, which was quickly followed by the panicked screech of two other girls as the light in their room flickered and blew.

He knew he should probably get up and admonish them – assert his authority as every good Captain should – but for some reason, he found he couldn’t bring himself to pull off the bedsheets and ruin their fun. Life had been tough and dull since the war had been declared, so the least he could do was give them one night to enjoy themselves. Yes, he’d tell them off tomorrow.

For now, he would roll over on the mattress, keenly aware of the empty space beside him as he heard Ingrid and Webber giggle again, and put his thin pillow over his head, squeezing his eyes shut.

* * *

Despite getting several hours of sleep, The Captain’s eyes felt heavy the next morning, and he had to wash his face with cold water twice before being able to take to the morning briefing without feeling like he might fall over. He stood in the adapted living room with the early morning light making his skin look brighter and hiding all evidence of his broken, disturbed night. He rattled through the usual business before dropping in the complaints he had regarding the night before, hoping it wouldn’t make him sound like a spoilsport.

“That brings me to point sixteen,” he said, holding his hands behind his back and scrunching his nose as he scanned the squad’s faces – no-one else seemed to be suffering the ill-effects of a poor night’s sleep. “There’s still a great deal of noise going on at night – laughing, giggling, _horseplay_ -“ Ingrid and Webber had the good grace to look embarrassed as he said this – “now, we all get bored. That’s inevitable in our circumstances, but may I remind you that we are at war? I would-“

His train of thought was interrupted by Havers arriving without a knock. The Captain's exhaustion was all but forgotten as his mouth transitioned from a stern scowl into a pleased smile. “Ah, Lieutenant,” he chirped, straightening his spine.

“Communique for you, Sir, from H.Q. Marked urgent,” he said, not quite looking up at him.

“Finally,” The Captain grinned, taking the missive with eager fingers, and bouncing on the balls of his feet as he unfolded the paper. “This’ll be my requisition for a service revolver. It’s about time, don’t you think?”

Havers flashed him a quick smile, biting back a heavy feeling that was settling over his chest.

The room was silent aside from a cadet shuffling in his chair as The Captain glanced over the typed words. His brows quickly sunk low on his forehead, darkening his usually crystalline eyes. “Good God!”

“Sir?”

The Captain looked up from the damning paper, gulping down a mouthful of air. His heart had disappeared into his stomach. “France has surrendered,” he breathed.

A sea of gasps and mumbles became the backdrop to Havers’ own small intake of breath. “My God!”

As elegantly as a feather falling from a bird in flight, the announcement fell away from The Captain’s fingers, landing softly at his feet – a world away from the heavy weight of meaning it held. How strange it seemed to be to him that devastating news could be delivered on such a flimsy, unsubstantial thing as paper.

“The Germans are coming!” he blurted out, running towards one of the latticed windows, squinting as the sunlight assaulted his senses.

As snickering started up behind him, Havers turned to the squad, shooting them all dirty looks that shut them up. Though he found The Captain’s concern endearing and was trying to suppress a smirk that was doing its best to burst into flame, he wasn’t about to allow him to feel embarrassed by his team.

“I don’t think they’ll be here just yet, Sir,” he said gently, softening his eyes and pressing his mouth into a fond smile.

“What?” The Captain leapt back from the window, scanning the room with a clenched jaw as he straightened his jacket. The cadets were hiding their mirth behind their hands, hoping that it might be misconstrued as shock instead. “Right…” he finished, rolling his eyes at himself and feeling the fool. He was frozen to the spot, looking at Havers with a blank expression, wishing he had gotten the good night’s sleep that might have allowed his logical, tactical brain to think faster than his reflexes.

Havers took a deep breath through his nose and gave him a sure nod, slowly pacing towards the window. “Might I suggest we initiate the emergency lockdown protocol, Sir?”

“Yes!” The Captain was standing as if he were ready to run, but he slowly began to stand upright again as Havers kept his sure gaze on him, subtly nodding his encouragement. “Yes…jolly good. It’s vital that nothing falls into enemy hands,” he added, glancing towards the ceiling and then at his cadets. No sooner had he said this, he was looking out the window again, consternation clouding his delicate features.

“You heard the C.O.,” Havers said sharply, turning on his heel towards the others. “Get to your duties.”

With a great deal of muttering, the cadets rose and filed out, leaving The Captain to give him a shaky yet thankful smile as Havers joined him by the window. The morning warmth touched his skin and, if it were any other day, he might have felt at peace in this quiet moment with the sun on their cheeks and the silent understanding. Havers turned to admire the colours of the stones lining the pathway to Button House – beautiful beiges turning to amber and gold, dazzling whites that made diamonds look dull. All of it surrounded by luscious, vibrant grass that would feel soft underfoot, if, like a child, he ran out without his shoes and socks. It really was the most perfect day. Which was to make it all the more challenging.

“Are you okay, Sir?” Havers asked, twisting his mouth into a concerned line. “You seem a little…on edge today.”

“What?” The Captain said absently, pulling himself upright. It took his bran another second to process what Havers had asked. “Oh…yes. Yes, I’m fine,” he said, crinkling his nose with a sniff. “I didn’t run off enough energy this morning, it seems. It’s exciting times, Havers. If they do invade, we may get a proper pop at Jerry.” There was a laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Havers matched it with one of his own, glancing at the broken fountain outside as he did so. “Yes…” he agreed, his smile disappearing and heart lurching forward. “About that, Sir…” he added tentatively. “I know we do vital work here…but I want to get involved in the fighting. I’ve put in for a transfer.”

The silence stretched between them like a thread being pulled too tightly – Havers staring out of the window and The Captain staring at his guilty profile in turn. Havers’ Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed the anxiety building in his chest. The Captain didn’t know how long he tried to speak for, but it felt like hours. “You’re leaving?”

“There’s talk of a North Africa Front, Sir,” Havers explained, his eyes darting from The Captain’s face to the window, to the back wall, and then to the floor, as restless as both of their feet.

Though France’s surrender had left him with an open heart, Havers’ announcement had left him with a void of feeling. It was if someone had directly choked the soul out of him, and he could no longer tell where his heart was residing if it was still there at all.

“Yes, well, I…” he stuttered, his muted silver eyebrows knitting together. “I totally understand, of course. It would be no use if I got on my high horse about this,” he said with a heavy sigh. “You’ve done the same thing that I did to you, it seems…Very clever, Havers. I’ll – we’ll – miss that about you.” He cleared his throat as Havers looked to his feet again. “What made you seek a transfer if you don’t mind me asking?”

Havers took a breath and relaxed his shoulders as he realised they were sitting too close to his ears. “It was something you said, Sir. Working in Intelligence wasn’t what I was expecting either…then I remembered what you said several years ago about wanting to help. Wanting to do the right thing. This feels like the right thing, and I hope you understand, Sir.”

Smiling bitterly at his own folly and grasping his fingers tightly behind his back, The Captain nodded. “I see…I’m pleased for you, Lieutenant…” he said softly before giving a determined nod. “Yes…well…carry on.”

Something else seemed to crush Havers at that moment too – maybe he was expecting for a stronger reaction, for him to fight for him as he had done years ago. Perhaps he had realised he was making a mistake. He pressed his lips together and slipped his hands into his pockets, adopting a more casual stance as if he were standing on the cricket pitch.

“Thank you,” he said hoarsely, trying to pull on a smile that told The Captain everything would be alright before he turned away, slinking out of the room knowing that his fierce sky-blue eyes would be trained on the back of his head.

Without warning, The Captain realised that this time, they might not get the chance to meet again and he sank heavily against the deep windowsill. So weak and wobbly were his legs, he could feel the cool stone of a doorstep under his knees and see the shredded poetry falling around his head – his very heart and soul-shattering for the second time in his life.

* * *

The pen scratched over the page, dripping ink, and causing it to seep into the fine grooves of the paper, leaving ugly blotches where fine words were supposed to be. It occurred to The Captain that he perhaps should’ve used the typewriter sitting in front of him for the sake of ease…but there was something intimate and straightforward about the act of handwriting that appealed to him. It could often be quicker than typing, but also something you could take your time over as you pondered the exact words needed to convey your meaning. Plus, if you had inherited quick, curled letters from your mother as The Captain had, and you were spilling ink everywhere, it could make it harder to read should anyone somehow intercept your note.

He signed his name with a flourish and snapped the lid back on to his pen. Blowing on the wet ink, he wondered if Havers would continue avoiding him today. So far, he’d managed to always find something that needed doing that would also stop them from having their usual, perfectly innocent conversations in the hallway or the living room. The Captain didn’t fully understand why. Was he still angry at him for leaving for the army in the first place? Did he enjoy giving him a taste of his own medicine and exacting revenge for shattering their quiet life of domesticity? Was he sad to be leaving? Did he regret asking for the transfer and was too proud to admit it? Perhaps Havers had fallen out of his affections and was desperate to get away.

The Captain pondered each scenario as he folded the letter and stuffed it into its pre-written envelope.

_William._

He sealed it carefully as if were made from the finest and thinnest porcelain and laid it beside the identically dressed envelope with a tight smile and a sigh. Tapping his fingers on the desk, The Captain kept his eyes trained on the envelopes, considering each of them closely as his head swam with the information contained in both. A throbbing pain started in his temples and pressed against the back of his eyes, but there was little time to sit and feel sorry for himself whilst waiting for the stress to pass.

One envelope he threw into the desk drawer with the limpet mine, shutting the drawer again gingerly. The other, he held between his fingers, turning it over and over as he got up from his chair to deliver it. Outside, there was a barrage of shouting as the cadets went through their afternoon training drills which did nothing to quash the increasing thudding in his skull.

The more he looked at the envelope and his scrawled letter, the more mistakes he noticed. He’d smudged the dot over the ‘i’ so it looked attached to one of the ‘l’s and the tail of the ‘m’ was far too long. The temptation to rip open the envelope and start again almost overtook him - just in case he couldn’t read the words - but a firm rap at the door brought him out of his head.

“Come!” he shouted back, his voice breaking halfway through for a reason he couldn’t ascertain. He stashed the envelope inside his jacket and turned towards the door. “Ah! Havers. At ease,” he told him, smiling his way through the headache. “I was just thinking about you, actually.”

“Were you really, Sir?” Havers quipped, pressing his lips together in an amused grin. “I’ll consider myself flattered.”

The Captain tittered and smacked his lips together, feeling the envelope wrinkle and press against his chest with every movement. “So you should,” he said, quickly becoming severe. “How’s the emergency lockdown coming?”

“Very good, Sir. Most items have been squared away, as per the order.”

“Excellent,” The Captain said. He was about to continue his train of thought when Havers interrupted, both of them speaking in hurried tones over each other until they fell into awkward laughter. As they looked at one another, they could see the old glimmers of more comforting times they’d laughed together, and their smiles became something sickly bittersweet.

“Sorry, you first Lieutenant,” The Captain said as he walked around his desk. He gave him an encouraging smile, but Havers just stood there, twisting his fingers together, his throat moving bobbing under his warm skin. He looked paler now than he did under the light of the three o’clock moon.

Havers took a deep breath, drawing as much air into his lungs as possible as he held The Captain’s stare. “I’m afraid I’m leaving you, Sir,” he said, the air becoming thinner around them despite the stuffy summer atmosphere that was trying to make the world feel like molasses. The Captain said nothing, he just kept trying to stop his face from revealing how upset he actually was. “At eighteen-hundred hours this evening,” he continued.

“So soon?” The Captain asked, his brows quirked into desperate arches. He clocked the harness clipped around Havers’ waist and sighed, nodding towards it. “I suppose that would explain your new service revolver.”

Havers looked at it with a childish, proud smile, both of them falling into patchy laughter at the innocent gesture.

“I don’t suppose they sent one for me, did they?” The Captain said, only half-joking as he shook his shoulders.

“They’re only for front-line personnel at this stage, Sir,” he answered apologetically, standing straighter.

The Captain nodded. “Of course. Yes,” he said hoarsely, glancing at the floorboards. One of the boards was doing its best to splinter, and a sharp piece of wood was sticking up at an angle.

“It’s North Africa, Sir,” Havers continued, slowly feeling more confident in their discussion. The hard bit was over. Well, for now, anyway. “I’ll be able to have a proper swing at Fritz!”

“You make sure you give them a bloody nose,” The Captain joked. “If how you fought the police all those years ago is anything to go by, then the Germans won’t know what’s coming to them.” He exhaled lightly, giving him a genuine, melancholic beam that he still hoped conveyed how delighted he was for him. “I shall miss you, Havers…” he said earnestly, taking a moment to memorise all the details of Havers’ features, but the sound of footsteps in the corridor made him gabble. “By which I mean, of course, that we shall miss you…and I know that the Button House XI will certainly miss your cover drive,” he smirked. “They’ll miss you as their captain.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Havers said. His shoulders felt a lot lighter than they had when he walked in. “If that’s all…”

“Yes…”

Havers nodded and turned to leave – he was halfway out the door when The Captain stopped him with a simple, “I say, Havers?”

He turned back quickly, his wide eyes blinking as he closed the door again. Havers’ smile was torn between surprise and a quiet hope as The Captain looked like he might speak again – might say what he wanted him to say.

The Captain could feel those words on the tip of his tongue, and they tasted like sour champagne. Sweet and promising initially with fizzing anticipation, melting away into something bitter and unsavoury if you let it linger for too long. It had been easy to ask Havers to stay twenty years ago – they didn’t know what they were getting into. It had been easy for Havers to ask him to stay four years ago – they knew what they had. And, looking at Havers now, The Captain knew they both wanted him to ask again…but he knew he couldn’t.

It would be too hypocritical of him to do so when he had told him several times now that he was pleased. Not to mention that he didn’t want a repeat of the awkward and tense few hours when he left. No, it was better to let him go, even if it was for the last time.

“It’s a bally shame we won’t get to finish the operation together,” he said finally, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“It certainly is,” Havers agreed, his cheeks a becoming shade of rouge. “Still, I look forward to hearing about your success in the future.”

The Captain smiled and shook his head, his hand flying to fiddle with the knot of his tie. “Regardless of whether you’re here or not, it will always be our success.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

He was about to leave again when The Captain blurted rare words of self-deprecation. “At the risk of having my ego ruined…you don’t seem all that sad to be leaving.”

Havers raised his eyebrows and tilted his head as he considered this and pressed his tongue against the sharp point of his incisor. “No,” he agreed, smiling fondly at the subtle slump of The Captain’s shoulders. “Frankly, Sir, I’ve had a lot of practice saying goodbye to you. Missing you has become second nature. I’m as much at home with my grief alone as I am in my joy with you beside me.”

“I see,” The Captain said, looking to the floor again. He shuffled his feet and made a mental note to polish his shoes tonight. “Yes, I think I rather know how you feel…although, I’m not sure I like the amount of practice we’ve had.”

“Neither do I,” Havers admitted. “But it is what it is…besides, it’s hard to be too upset about it. I have a funny feeling we’ll meet again some sunny day,” he said, smiling towards the window and the dust dancing in the beams. “We always do.”

“I hope you’re right, Havers,” The Captain said, allowing himself to grin as Havers finally took his leave. He had already disappeared down the corridor to collect his things when he remembered the letter in his pocket.

* * *

Six o’clock came all too quickly, and The Captain found he couldn’t force his legs to say goodbye at the door. Instead, he sat on the windowsill of his office, staring down at the gate and Havers’ slim frame, swamped by his trench coat as he slowly trod the gravel.

Turning back towards the house one last time, Havers looked up at the office window, spotting his Captain’s austere face through the lattice. He raised his hand to him, smiling as if he were simply popping out for the afternoon than heading overseas for God knows how long. The Captain waved back, making himself smile – but it felt more like the ghost of one rather than the real thing.

Then, just like that, he was gone, and the path was deserted. Like he’d never been there at all.

The Captain felt hollow. He should’ve just said it. Should’ve asked him to stay anyway. Or at the very least, told him he loved him…just in case he wouldn’t have the chance to do so again.

Hindsight was a terrible thing.

The Captain slipped his hand into his jacket, pulling out the letter with trembling fingers. He sucked on his bottom lip as he stared at his own handwriting, flicking the corners of the paper with his stubby nails. It would’ve been easy to slip the missive into Havers’ pocket, and yet, he hadn’t taken the opportunity.

He hadn’t taken the opportunity.

He had taken it twenty years ago in The Crypt. He had retaken it years later in his flat when Havers told him to consider their relationship. He had taken the opportunity when the army came calling. So why hadn’t he taken it now?

Bolstered, The Captain slipped away from the windowsill and perched on the edge of his desk, resting his foot on the seat of his chair as he dialled the number he knew so well on the black phone beside his model globe. The phone pinged each time he turned the dial, but the letter he had balanced on his knee kept him smiling.

It rang out for a few moments, and The Captain took a deep breath, catching sight of the dark shadows under his eyes and his pallid complexion in the mirror in the corner.

“Hello,” he said into the receiver. “It’s Captain-“ he paused, licking the corner of his mouth with the tip of his tongue. “Yes, that’s right, from Button House. No, no, everything’s fine, Sir,” he assured the man on the other end of the line. “I was just wondering if I might request a transfer?”

The Captain grinned at the letter and tucked it back into his pocket, smiling at his reflection in the glass.


	13. The Ghost

If there was one thing The Captain noticed as he meandered through the familiar hallways of Button House, it was the dust.

Dust on the floorboards, leaving footprints as he walked, collected in thick clumps at the corner of the windowsills, and casting a dirty film over the soft furnishings. Over five years’ worth of the filth seeping into every nook and cranny and giving the house a dull shadow that was in surprise contrast to the happy times he’d spent here.

At the time, he didn’t realise just how happy they’d been, if a little desperate and stressed on occasion. But what he wouldn’t give now to be back there – blissfully unaware of all that was to come when the only thing he needed to worry about was getting the cadets to keep their ten o’clock bedtime.

He walked through the hallway towards the living room, clutching his swagger stick in his both hands. His heart quickened under his ribs, making him feel breathless as he turned into the room and found that little had changed. The most obvious change was that those who had come back were older – more haunted – some seemed delirious with relief. Included in that bracket was Webber and Ingrid Simmons who were standing handsomely together, grinning, their arms linked as they talked with Second-Lieutenant Stephens who was now walking with a cane and wincing as he sat down.

He hoped no-one would notice him – not for a while anyway - but with Dottie and Arthur following several feet behind, it was hard for him to avoid the attention. Not with four-year-old Martha holding her mother’s hand and whimpering about being bored, not understanding why they were there, and a grumpy George on his father’s hip, eager for naptime but doing his best to remain awake. Elizabeth, trussed up in the cardigan she’d had since her son was a boy, had come too and was trying her best to distract Martha with a story.

“Captain!” Webber cried, spying him and the small troupe. He came over with boundless energy, Ingrid giggling as she walked with him. She pinched George’s chubby cheek and stuck her tongue out at him as Webber continued to talk. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Sir.”

“At ease,” The Captain said, smiling lightly from the corner of his mouth. “I’m glad to see you both looking so well.”

“Thank you, Sir,” he answered, glowing as he looked at Ingrid who was deep in conversation with Arthur about George’s aversion to mashed potato. “I’m hoping we’ll have one of these of our own soon,” he admitted with a sheepish grin, glancing at the gurgling George.

Dottie, relinquishing Martha’s hand so she could stand with her grandmother, introduced herself by smirking and touching the swell of her belly. “Careful,” she said darkly with a twinkle in her eye. “Once you start having them, you won’t want to stop.”

“I think three is enough, my love,” Arthur choked, his cheeks flushing rose.

“For now,” she teased, winking at Ingrid who chuckled vulgarly behind her hand.

“I heard about the Lieutenant, Sir,” Webber said with a sympathetic smile.  
  
The air around The Captain became cold, and his heart once again sped up, sending a tingle through his limbs. Dottie and Arthur exchanged glances and made their excuses to join Martha and Elizabeth, who were drawing shapes in the condensation on the window.

The Captain swallowed the nothing lodged in his throat and tightened his grip on the swagger stick, part of him wondering if it would snap until the pressure. “Yes…terrible shame.”

He’d been dreading people asking, but it was inevitable that they would. It was something he’d spent the whole journey trying to prepare himself for, his mother silently squeezing his hand in the back of the car as she looked out the window. All that those months to think and steel himself, and yet, it wasn’t enough. It could never have been enough.

“Second-Lieutenant said the two of you had known each other since you were kids,” Webber continued, tilting his head with concern.

“Yes, that’s right,” he answered tightly, rolling out his shoulders and doing his best to smile. The action felt wrong, but he found he couldn’t stop it. Even when he felt a little light-headed, he kept smiling. “We were _almost_ inseparable,” he said, laughing at his joke.

Webber nodded, raising an eyebrow as he watched The Captain grow embarrassed by his behaviour. “He was a good man,” he said with a sigh. “We lost too many of them.”

“We certainly did,” The Captain agreed, catching his breath.

“It’s strange being back, don’t you think?” Webber said, looking up at the room’s high ceiling with a shiver. “Whose idea was it to have a reunion here anyway? It sort of feels like if the Germans decided to reunite at Stalingrad.”

The Captain hummed, sweat prickling at his brow and back. “The owner of the house wanted to meet us all, which makes sense. I think I’d probably want to meet the people who’d been living in my house for the past six years too.”

“Heather’s a charming girl,” Stephens said from his chair. “She just wants to thank us all for our service,” he said, eyeing The Captain’s bare jacket. “Speaking of which, it looks like someone’s modest about their achievements. Where are your medals, soldier?”

“It didn’t feel appropriate to wear them,” The Captain said through a wheeze. He came to sit by Stephens, yawning. His whole body felt exhausted – a fact he put down to the lack of sleep he’d had over the past few years.

“You should be proud of them,” said the Second Lieutenant. “They’re a reminder of all you’ve been through.”

Twisting his mouth into a self-deprecating smile, The Captain took a raspy breath. He could feel the medals burning a hole in his pocket. “I’ve plenty of reminders of that already,” he said, a tightness forming over his chest and arms as he thought of Havers’ skin against his. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend he was here now. It made it hard to breathe.

But he was used to that.

Sometimes he would wake up in the night unable to breathe – his skin slicked with sweat despite the winter weather – and the only way he could try and settle again was by sitting upright staring straight at the wall opposite so the panic he was feeling would melt away. Sometimes he was afraid to lie down again in case the pain and the images back to him.

“Are you okay, darling?” Elizabeth asked, squeezing his shoulder. The Captain couldn’t be sure how long she had been watching him or when she had come over. “You’re looking a little pale.”

Elizabeth was now in her early sixties but was still as elegant as ever. Her hair, only mildly greyer than his, was pulled back into its usual neat knot by the nape of her neck, giving her a kindly schoolteacher look. She lightly rouged her cheeks every morning and, after becoming widowed for the second time in forty-three, began wearing the pearl earrings her first husband had given her again. She smiled more too now and didn’t flinch when she heard the ominous creak of a foot on a dodgy floorboard.

When Dottie’s letter arrived to tell him of the news, The Captain was hard-pressed to feel miserable about it. He’d felt bad for a split second as he thought about his poor mother who had already been through enough grief, and about Dottie herself who had lost her father. No matter how cruel he’d been, he was still her father.

But the sorrow didn’t last long as he continued reading.

_It was the drink that got him in the end. Isn’t it odd that sometimes the thing you love is the thing that kills you? I’m not sad about Father dying. I’m sad that I’m not sad about it, and that that he upset you and mother. I’m sad that he ignored me unless it suited him. I’m sorry that he robbed us of the chance to be a proper family. Now that he’s gone, I hope we can all find some peace._

“I’m fine,” The Captain said to his mother, shuffling in the chair as he became aware of the tightness around his belt and the embarrassment of having mummy come to coddle him in front of his squad. “But I may just pop outside for some air,” he added.

No-one followed him as he left, but he could feel the pitying stares of his family burning on his back. The others who served didn’t pay as much attention to him slipping out – they all understood.

He emerged into the frost-bitten garden and walked around the decaying statue that was slowly being taken by the environment. Thin brown invasive branches wrapped around the statue’s curves which would then conceal her when the sun dared to grace the garden again and the leaves began to sprout.

The spot he’d dug the night before he left was almost invisible he realised as he stood over it. Cold air seeped into his lungs, freezing him from the inside out, but it was doing wonders reducing the perspiration on his face.

If he looked, he thought he might find the shovel where he left it in the shed – covered in cobwebs and grime by now. Perhaps he ought to dig up the mine and have it destroyed by the relevant authorities? He touched his jacket and felt the familiar, comforting crinkle pressing against his chest and warming his palm. Perhaps he ought to have many things destroyed by the relevant authorities.

Havers would’ve laughed at that idea. Those dimples would’ve become a deep crevice on his face, and his warm chocolate eyes would have been sparkling as he told him to stop being so dramatic. Maybe he would’ve playfully tapped him on the arm and fondly shook his head, or perhaps he would’ve smiled his all-knowing smile and said something infuriatingly poetic – something that made The Captain sit back and reflect on his situation.

_“I’d rather live a full half-life than a half full-life.”_

It had been over twenty years since Havers first said that to him, and he still thought about it from time to time – if he were braver, more open, or if times were different, maybe he would’ve had the guts to live by it completely and utterly.

Perhaps it was time to try.

After all, wasn’t that what William had done? He’d broken the rules at almost every turn; doing it whilst staring the consequences in the face with a smile. 

Havers had lived. He had stories to tell. He’d loved.

It felt wrong to refer to, and think of, Havers in the past tense, especially when he was so _present_ when he was around. 

Yes, The Captain had done it before – he’d spent more time speaking about him in the past tense than actually being with him – but this time, it felt different. It was heavier and harder to do. The tenses clanged like a dull bell, sending deep tremors through his bones. It was sickeningly final.

He thought all this whilst staring at the grass, knocking at the frosted blades with the toe of his shoe. For some reason, he felt that he might see the outlines of the hole he dug through the grass and was oddly disappointed to discover that nothing was amiss. The only evidence that Havers had lived here was buried in the ground by the dead allotment they used to tend to.

The only evidence William had lived was buried in the ground.

The Captain cleared his throat and rubbed his knuckles against his sternum, wincing as he tried to massage away the ache.

It was time to get out of the cold – his fingertips were becoming devoid of colour. No sooner had he stepped back into the living room, he felt as if he was being knocked back again by his niece and nephew as they came charging at him. Bored of talking to their parents and grandmother, they wanted to hear another one of his stories and have a go brandishing his swagger stick.

“Up!” George said, jumping on his small, unsteady legs and raising his arms above his head. “Up!”

The Captain smiled from the corner of his mouth and leaned down to ruffle George’s sandy hair, tucking his swagger stick under his arm. George laughed when his uncle’s knees made 'the funny noise'.

“No, Georgie,” Martha said self-importantly. She looked like a china doll with her fresh, translucent skin, rosy cheeks, and piercings eyes. “Uncle Captain is here because he was very brave in the war. Which you won’t remember, but I do,” she said pointedly, her chin wrinkling under the force of her pout. “We’re supposed to be sad and respectful so we can remember the people who died. He can’t pick you up.”

Behind her, Elizabeth, Dottie, and Arthur all exchanged embarrassed glances, but The Captain just smiled kindly.

“It’s okay, Martha,” he said, picking up a now miserable-looking George with an exaggerated groan. When he was upright again, he could feel his heart fluttering, and his legs shake. His head, usually laden with thought, emptied, so he felt as if he were floating. “It’s okay, Martha,” he repeated, willing the feeling to pass as George rest his head in the crook of his neck with a yawn. “We don’t have to be sad to remember the people we lost. Besides, we’re here to celebrate the fact we’re back with our families and to say thank you to the lady that owns this house.”

Squinting sceptically, Martha folded her arms across her chest. “Really? Because you always look sad and Mummy said it was because-“

“Martha, darling, that’s enough,” her father said. Arthur stepped forward to wrap his arms around her daughter’s shoulders, smiling crookedly at The Captain.

“It’s alright,” The Captain insisted breathlessly, carefully lowering George to the ground again as found himself starting to feel dizzy. “I am sad sometimes, Martha, but we're here to celebrate too.”

George plopped down heavily on the ground with a yawn, eliciting smiles and laughs from the other soldiers and cadets around the room. If he hadn’t been so tired, he would’ve started running around in circles, clapping his hands together.

“It doesn’t look much like a celebration,” she said, looking around the dusty room and its fading wallpaper.

“Remember what I said about being respectful?” Dottie said. She had taken a seat on the windowsill, rubbing the top of her belly as the baby kicked.

The Captain swallowed, his smile fading. He didn’t want Martha to know just how sad he could be, so he excused himself, walking upstairs to his old office and shutting the door.

It was much the same as when he left it except the brick-a-brack on the desk had moved, and there were some new additions. There was a wilting plant in a ceramic pot, and a forgotten bottle of perfume sprinkled with a light scattering of dust.

Nobody had changed the ugly pink wallpaper since he left, and the cheval mirror still stood in the corner, tall and proud. Seeing it all again made The Captain feel weak – it was like he’d been thrown straight back into the thick of the action. Or rather, the beginning of the midst of it, only he had the sense to be scared this time.

He sank into the familiar chair with a grumble – his heart beating a million miles a minute. All he could see were the ghosts of his younger self and Havers, gathered together with their heads bent low as they worked. Smoke filling the room as they talked in hushed voices, laughing about their shared childhood and about the people they’d left behind in their cricket club.

Sneaking his hand into his jacket, The Captain brought out the envelope with a lamenting sigh. It too hadn’t changed much over the years – the only difference was how creased and crumpled it was. He stared at the name on the front, tracing his nail over it, lingering on the tail of the ‘m.’  
  
It would’ve been easy to fall back into the vortex of his thoughts, but Dottie had other ideas. She knocked on the door with a gentle finger and walked in without answering, smiling tightly and brightly simultaneously.

“I think Ms Button has burned something,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Mum’s gone to check on her in the kitchen.”

“She’ll end up taking over,” The Captain said fondly. His eyelids were heavy, and he started fanning himself with the letter, pushing away the discomfort building in his chest. It was a mistake to come back here.

Dottie grinned, closing the door behind her, and telling him to sit back down when The Captain offered her his chair. “You look like you need it more than I do,” she teased, noticing how pale and anxious he seemed to be. Her caring attitude didn’t last long as she spotted the letter he was clinging to. “What’s that?”

“You always were nosy,” he shot back with a grin that didn’t quite meet his eyes. He pulled the envelope tightly between his fingers so Dottie could read William’s name. “It never seemed like the right time to give it to him.” The Captain dropped his gaze shamefully, grinding his molars together.

“What does it say?”

The Captain shrugged like it didn’t matter and put the envelope back into his jacket. “Everything I should have done when I had the chance.” He pressed his lips together. “I always thought I’d have another day.”

With a supportive smile, Dottie nodded and squeezed his shoulder. “Whatever it says, I bet you’d told him everything you felt anyway.”

At this, The Captain’s heart lurched, and his arms became a hefty weight. “I still should have said it or given him the letter.” He rubbed his clammy forehead with the back of his hand. “Good Lord, Dottie. I miss him.”

“I know,” she answered, sliding her hand to rub his back. No-one had ever told her explicitly what happened, but as she got older and read between the lines, it wasn’t hard to figure it out. It felt scandalous for a few minutes but, when the surprise had passed, she was left disappointed by how normal it seemed. It all made sense. “I didn’t know him as well as you did, but I miss him too. He was always so kind to me whenever I came to visit.”

“That’s because he was a kind man. Despite everything, he loved the world. It’s just a shame the world didn’t love him back. Or us, for that matter.”

Dottie leaned against the desk, wrapping her arms around herself. “I don’t know what happened out there, Buba, and I know you’re not ready to talk about it,” she added, seeing The Captain’s glare snap up at her. It stung like a band on snapping against naked skin. “But I’m confident they’ll find him eventually. He always comes back, and you always find each other.”

The Captain smiled from the corner of his mouth and touched his chest, pressing his palm firmly against his breastbone. “I hope you’re right,” he exhaled. “I wish I had the confidence you do about it…everyone thinks he’s dead and I don’t know what to think. I wish I knew what happened. I can’t bear the uncertainty.”

“He’ll come back,” Dottie said again, more forcefully this time. “Now, put these on and great ready to smile for Ms Button,” she instructed, bringing out the line of medals from her pocket. “If Havers turns back up, you don’t want to look slapdash, do you?”

His hand hovered over the medals, shaking and tingling, but he didn’t take them. “He knew me without them.”

“He’ll still recognise you with a few medals on, stupid,” Dottie insisted, leaning forward to pin them above the pocket of his khaki jacket. She leaned back, pleased with herself. “There. Just like the hero in the stories Mum used to tell me.”

The Captain glanced down at them, pouting. “They’re the wrong way round,” he said through a grimace. His mouth tasted like iron.

“Well, how was I supposed to know?” Dottie said, watching her brother drag his feet towards the mirror.

What little colour he had left drained from his skin as he stared at his reflection. His eyes seemed more hollow than usual, and they didn’t sparkle in quite the same way they were usually wont to do. Instead, they seemed like they had a film covering them, so everything looked distorted and out of reach. The only thing he could pick out in his reflection was the dark strip of his moustache and the garish colours of his backwards awards.

His heart had quickened again when he stood from the chair, but now he could feel it slowing until it was painful to breathe – his chest squeezed by an invisible force. Something solid pressing heavily on his ribs. His tie too tight around his neck. No matter how much he tried, he couldn’t seem to swallow air into his lungs, and the world was spinning too fast.

“Dottie,” he whispered, his tired fingers trying to grasp at the gold buttons of his uniform. They kept slipping away thanks to the thin layer of cold sweat slicking his skin. “I think something’s wrong.”

His legs buckled underneath him, and Dottie leapt across the room with surprising speed and grace for a woman who was six months pregnant. She caught him around the armpits, slowly sinking to her knees as he fell to the floor, resting his head in her lap. Shadowy figures appeared in his fading line of vision.

“Buba!” Dottie exclaimed, gently slapping his cheeks, and wiping the sweat from his forehead. “Help! Somebody help!” she screeched, her eyes igniting with panic as she smoothed his hair. “Call an ambulance! Fetch a doctor! Somebody do something!”

The Captain’s eyes had closed to the world, and warmth was creeping up his extremities. “Don’t let him see me like this…” he whimpered. “He’ll only worry,” he added with the plague of a smirk.

“I promise,” she said, blinking back tears as she heard hurried footsteps below and on the stairs. “He’ll see you when you’re better…it’s okay, Buba. You’re okay.”

A voice that wasn’t his sister’s or his mother’s rang in his ears, the shrill timbre of her voice ebbing and flowing, but he couldn’t tell what she was saying. Before her voice faded again, he thought he heard her say, “Oh! I do hope he stays!”

“ _Buba_!”

The grass was itchy against his back, and he squirmed against it to get the tickle to disappear. Beside him, someone giggled lightly as they both shielded their eyes from the sun with their chubby hands.

When he turned his head, William was laughing at him, exposing his gap-toothed smile and the finger-tip size hollows in the apples of his cheeks. The sun had tanned his skin through the long afternoon of play, and his soft hair brushed the stems of some fleshy foxgloves.

“You look like a worm,” he told him, “a polka dot worm,” he added as he stared at the darkening sunlit freckles on his friend’s face.

The Captain pursed his lips together, trying not to laugh. In the distance, he could hear his baby sister calling for him. “It itches,” he said. “Why is grass so itchy?”

“I don’t know,” Havers said, sitting upright. A ladybird was crawling over his arm, and he smiled at it, trying to count the spots on its blood-red body. “I’m sure the grass has its reasons.”

“You’re probably right,” the Captain said, sitting up too. In the distance, he could see Dottie running towards them with her short, fat legs. Sitting in garden chairs by the back door, Elizabeth and John watched them with smiles they couldn’t see, talking closely with Mr and Mrs Havers. He wondered what grownups spoke about when kids weren't listening. Instinctively, he knew that Auntie Frances was inside, cooking something for dinner, and they’d be allowed to eat sitting in the grass for once. “You’re always right.”

Havers beamed and lowered the ladybird on to a blade of grass. “I know.”

“Buba!” Dottie cried, falling into her brother’s lap. She didn’t notice him wince as she knocked against his grazed knee. “’Lum, ‘lum,” she said, reaching for Havers’ shoulder.

“Hey, Dottie,” Havers chirped, gently batting at one of her pigtails.

All three of them were sweating under the sun, but none of them wanted to go back inside. Not when there were still hours of daylight left and a whole world to explore.

“We’re going to go sail the ocean,” the Captain said to her, smiling over her head at Havers. “Do you want to play?”

Dottie nodded, squealing with joy as the Captain helped her to sit on his shoulders. She clapped her thick hands together as he stood, showing her the garden from a height she’d never known. Barefoot, he traipsed through the grass with Havers beside him – both of them beaming at Dottie’s utter glee.

“I’m the captain,” he explained. “And William is my first mate. What do you want to be?”

Dottie didn’t answer – she just kept laughing her bright and sparkling laugh.

“She could be a look-out,” Havers suggested. “Or a navigator. Or maybe she could be a sea creature of some kind!”

“Maybe,” the Captain said, beaming. When they reached the haybale, he helped her to climb on top of it, making sure she was comfortable and steady. Unaware of the dangers of the height, she just pulled at the straw, kicking her legs.

It was easy for him to climb the bale, and he got his footing quickly, hauling himself up with a satisfied groan. Havers didn’t find it as easy; he kept slipping on the bale with a huff, rolling his eyes at himself.

The Captain leaned forward, holding out a sure hand. Havers’ fingers were warm as they closed around his. He’d never noticed how easily or how perfectly their hands fit together before, but now he’d realised he wasn’t sure if he’d never stop thinking about it.

“Thanks,” Havers said, shifting close on the bale. They sat with their knees touching. “Where shall we go, Captain?” he asked.

“Somewhere we’ve never been before,” he said, grinning as he surveyed the hills in the distance. He turned to Havers, his smile softening as he spotted the admiration in his face. “I’d love to explore somewhere new.”

Havers nodded, tilting his head like a confused puppy. “That would be nice, but don’t you want to stay here forever? It’s so beautiful here…”

“It is,” he agreed, putting his arm around Dottie, and allowing his hand to creep closer to Havers’, his fingers twitching. “But I think there’s a bigger adventure waiting for me out there.”

“I’ll meet you there,” Havers said, twining their hands together with a content smile. “I wonder who’ll make it first?”

The Captain shrugged, his crystal eyes sparking as he rubbed his thumb over the back of Havers’ smooth hand. “It doesn’t matter,” he insisted. “I just want us to be together for as long as possible.”

“We will be.” Havers took a deep breath and turned his head to face the horizon, tilting his face towards the warmth.

Over the hills, the Captain could see the sun was setting faster than he anticipated, turning the sky into a myriad of pastel shades. Bold blues faded into cotton pink, then to a seeping purple like water spilt on ink, stars beginning to stab at the sky.

Even with the sun dipping behind the slopes, he could still feel the rays on his skin. Peace enveloped him as the world turned dark, and the calming trace of William Havers' hand holding his own caused his heart to give a final, flickering flutter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it is done!
> 
> A big thank you to everyone who's read, commented, and left kudos - it means so much to me that you've enjoyed! I'd also like to say a big thank you to my long-suffering best friend, Emily, who's had to spend the last two months listening to me talk about this fic and put up with me asking her for her opinions on plot points.
> 
> Thank you - I love you!
> 
> Also: she urged me to write this ending - so complaints to her ;) <3
> 
> Final Note: Some people have asked whether there might be a sequel to this - unfortunately, the short answer is no. However, I am open to writing in-universe one-shots and drabbles! So, if you enjoyed this story, and want to know a bit more about a particular time in Cap's life or have a scenario you'd like to see, just leave me a comment or message on tumblr and I'll write you a gift for a collection!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Two Boys and alot of fun](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26934661) by [Trini_is_here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trini_is_here/pseuds/Trini_is_here)




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